I stop to listen to the sounds of
the trees conversing with
their creator. The words are so heavy
that the birds forget flight
and instead swim through the ocean blue skies.
I remembered the way I once listened to
two friends talk in a tongue foreign
to my ears, wondering why I
could not understand the luscious
sounds protruding from their lips.
The way each cared for the other was
clear in their melodic voices.
Why do they whisper?
The warm air, merely a messenger,
seems not to be as confused
nor as concerned as I am.
We watch as the leaves do not
fall to the ground, but
smash into the rubble of
the Earth. The repetition of these
sounds reminds me of a symphony I
once heard when the oceans
consumed a steadfast city.
The pain felt by the people
was reflected in the broken bodies
of the architecture.
I see the parallel of nature—but what
secrets do they tell such that they whisper?
The trees continue to sway, and
as the breeze hastens,
their branches whip violently,
singing in harmony with the wind.
I close my eyes, relax my body, and
listen softly. As I breathe in, I hear
innocence. I continue to
inhale the whisper, the atmosphere
around me engulfing my senses
to let me know that the intimate sun
and the anxious moon and the raging
stars are not the only ones evoking
stories from the pure
minds of the lost lamb.
The solemn wanderers of the world seek out
truth in the prose of the world, but instead find
confusion amongst the burnt-red leaves
and God’s blue eyes. Listening to
the stories that are woven into
their emotions, they become mute
because the carrying sound does not want to be delivered.