Coasting past nature's giants,
I muse about all they could tell me.
Their leaves holding the energy of
100 years' eclipses and smoldering summers.
The day the sun was silent.
Roots drinking up the essence of our ancestors.
The last handful of dirt, sprinkled mournfully.
Rough, weathered skin forever holding two names together.
A boy carving initials into her bark with a shaky hand.
The wisest creatures the world could offer,
Living scrapbooks.
Listen closely,
For the wind that shakes their arms in a waltz
Is not simply a whistle, but a secret.