The trees communicate in semaphore,
and whispers loud enough for decibels.
They speak as one and spend their days and nights
in stop-start conversations, where obsessions
about the wind and seasons dominate
their talk. Today, they are as happy as
a group of trees could be, excited by
the spring that’s just arriving. Here we are
again, the branches whisper. Look: our leaves
are back. Last week, we all were winter-naked,
but now we’ve made the sky turn green. It seems
like silence, but it isn’t if you listen.
A forest is a life-raft for the mind,
a vessel to go sailing in from time
to time. We are the trees, the leaves, the fallen
branches and twigs, the forest floor: all one.
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