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john-niederbuhlPoems
Nature's own inkblots, By time and wind shaped Each with a story to tell, Fantasy stirring, recollection as well, Knowing us better than we know ourselves.   Some have stooping shoulders, Like old men after a funeral Talking quietly on the lawn. Some have boughs that slant down, Like eyebrows On teachers that frown-- Worried and skeptical. Some stand at varied intervals Along hilltops above a town Watching like sentinels. Some have branches that curve up, Short, like fancy mustaches, Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched To greet a loved one.   Some stand very close, boughs touching, Like families saying grace; On some, the branches intertwine, Like lovers who embrace, And on some, the lowest limbs Fly upwards, Like a skirt raised by the wind.   Young ones crowd together, Some taller than the rest, Trunks thin, Like kids choosing sides for baseball. On some, the branches rise like smoke, Billowing silently, curling, Drifting to the sky Like prayers from a little church Where all the woman wear hats, And every man wears a tie.   Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye-- Each with a story to tell. Silently standing, By time and wind shaped Knowing us better than we know ourselves.
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Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Great White Pines
Nature's own inkblots, By time and wind shaped Each with a story to tell, Fantasy stirring, recollection as well, Knowing us better than we know ourselves.   Some have stooping shoulders, Like old men after a funeral Talking quietly on the lawn. Some have boughs that slant down, Like eyebrows On teachers that frown-- Worried and skeptical. Some stand at varied intervals Along hilltops above a town Watching like sentinels. Some have branches that curve up, Short, like fancy mustaches, Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched To greet a loved one.   Some stand very close, boughs touching, Like families saying grace; On some, the branches intertwine, Like lovers who embrace, And on some, the lowest limbs Fly upwards, Like a skirt raised by the wind.   Young ones crowd together, Some taller than the rest, Trunks thin, Like kids choosing sides for baseball. On some, the branches rise like smoke, Billowing silently, curling, Drifting to the sky Like prayers from a little church Where all the woman wear hats, And every man wears a tie.   Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye-- Each with a story to tell. Silently standing, By time and wind shaped Knowing us better than we know ourselves.
I grew up among these trees--I know them and they know me
#nature
Written by
john-niederbuhl
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
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