What is the alchemy of windering tree
to transmute such ire without a needful pyre?
When lonely travail on the hammerhead trail
strikes my melancholy heart with cutting hail
the trees reach out - oak, hawthorn, beech and sprout
forth inside. Great buds of joy bring forth a shout
of wonderous glee when only talking tree
does bring a smile upon a lonely mile.
When forced to wander with a bitter mind
that youthful trauma enforced with daily grind
t'was in the shelter of familiar woods
that groping memory finds the same old goods;
that wonderous glee, found in talking tree,
the fledgling smile upon the lonely mile.
Such wise chemistries belongs in the trees,
the transformational power, from dust to flower,
is better in the branches than human tranches.
Yet their generosity is wonderful to me
budding forth such glee discovered with the tree
the returning smiles over everlasting miles.
P.S. Windering = a made up word to describe the motion of tree's in the wind