Language of Trees

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells


Against the breath of God

Strong limbs are blown and broken,

Wooden bodies bow.

Tree tops sway

Precariously high above and frightfully close,

Branches and twigs twining and grappling in a dance,

Rustling their leaves in a language I couldn’t understand.

There are two ways I perceive such an occurance.

I attempt at reassuring myself that I and they will be fine

Against the onslaught of air that moves them so.

But I can’t suppress the thought

That the sway of treetops

Are the strained cries for help

Or violent shouts for retribution

As it struggles not to

Or fights in order to

Fall.

But as I stare up at the limbs,

Sturdy in their dance with the wind,

And listen to them whisper and shout,

I can imagine the trees speaking to one another

Allowing me to listen and filling me all with fear, exhilaration, and peace

For the adventure now and yet to come.

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