The trees bent double laughing,
their breath catching their chests.
Mirth shakes their frames
and happy tears caress their coverings.
They dance and sing
the picture of joy
allowing cares to drain with rain
while the elders look on,
wrinkled and turning mossy grey.
Long beards and stooping limbs
creak their wisdom to those that listen.
Slowly swaying and chanting their song,
they whisper tales of epics old;
wizen'd old wizards with knowledge unknown
Their stories echo in their rutted faces
and withstand the test of time.
Share This Poem