The Park

Poetry, I think, but not the rhyming kind

I think that,
when you and I sit,
the trees bend over to listen to us talk.
I also think they talk back to us.

In the spring,
the talk is pastel,
renewal and hope.

In the summer,
the talk is green and strong
it lasts forever.

In the fall,
the talk is fading but beautiful still,
orange, red and yellow blending;
symphony of color.

Yet in the winter,
though leaves have fallen,
they remain,
happy and adorned in white jackets.