L'Arbre Sage

Tree

A gnarled tree,
Twisted like an old ribbon in a young girl's braded hair,
Opens the silent mouths of its knotted bark
And bemoans its existance,
The whispered wisdom of the trunk and limbs,
Forgotten among the wind-inspired gossip of the young and thoughtless leaves.
The stark horror of the deadened branches
Casts grisly shadows
On the sun-dappled waves of grass.
If I could but restrain the wind
And silence the chattering green,
What would I hear?
Would those gaping knots abandon their silence,
Open their mouths yet wider,
And sing to me
In eerie, mismatched, and inhuman harmonies
Of yes and no?
Would I understand?
When I press my hands against the wrinkled mosaic of the tree's ageless exterior,
The reverberations of ages of observation and conclusion
Echo in my skin and bones.
Oh, that I could hear the tree!