The breeze is shaking branches, pulling roots,
Teasing dumbstruck whispers from my lips.
The sun is leaking through and casting gold
On leaves that cling with slipping grips.
I follow the great trunk that reaches up
Where its top tickles bloated clouds,
Then take shelter–with creatures rustling dirt–
From the eyeless stares of age-old crowds.
Among the fallen leaves, muddied with steps,
The old ones sleep, shaken loose before.
They rest on nature’s cushioned bed,
Imprinting forest floors.
My skin as bark,
I watch them sway.
The quiet trees,
by Harry Husbands
Photo by Bee Husbands!