The Language of the Trees

I

I asked the trees one summer

What they had been thinking of all year.

They wouldn’t say,

But then I heard them wave

And whisper of the ages—

Seasons—

Years, and months, and days—

And countless hours

Of abundant happiness!

II

I like the tales they tell me.

Autumn makes them talk of leaving all,

And yet they stay,

And as they drop their leaves,

They muse for weeks on April—

Thrushes—

Stars and lingering Indian summers—

Rain—

And latent loneliness . . .

III

Their voice is low in winter.

Snow and icy winds are on their minds,

And they withdraw;

But in their winter dreams

You hear how branches sing,

And think of dawn—

The sun in distant countries—

Warmth—

And summer peacefulness.

IV

How grand they are each season—

Often have I seen them stand like kings!

A certain awe

Surrounds their splendid forms,

And so they wait for spring—

For flowers—

Verdant prairies—

Butterflies in May—

And simple loveliness.

V

And then they speak of lovers!

Sudden colors spread their message fast,

And every year

Their many stories bloom,

And nourish noble pages—

Poems—

Gorgeous music—

Heart and mind

With endless youthfulness.

VI

And so we welcome summer . . .

All day long they stand and think and dream,

And all we hear

Is how they wave again

And whisper of the ages—

Seasons—

Years, and months, and days—

And countless hours

Of unending happiness . . .

© 1988 Freddy Niagara Fonseca

I never saw a discontented tree.

—John Muir

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Design and copyright 2009 Freddy Niagara Fonseca

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