Conversation With a Silver Birch
Stay, she said.
As a breeze lifted my hair,
caused her to quiver gently.
Tell me I am pretty.
Oh, you are,
I replied as she swayed.
Do you see my silver gown,
I see them and I hear your song,
the tinkle of gems in your throat.
Yes, the wind plays me in concerto.
Music that echoes tunes
of the days making.
Of light and air, birds and rain.
I hear. See your slender limbs,
how you move, dainty roots that grip.
I would sing with you,
if you would teach me.
Sadly, I cannot.
For my song comes
from leaf and weather, sun and cloud,
from moon-glow and sparkle.
Gifts that are not mine to offer.
Would you though, if you could?
Oh yes, she sighed,
I would give anything
for one who understands me.