That Garden, That Garden
I see it in my sleep.
The rivers run green,
bright and alive,
a scene that holds me still.

The air is thick with a scent I cannot name,
unique, like nothing else.
The water flows with a sound
I would hold onto forever.

The flowers are soft,
their colors muted,
gentle against the eye.

In the lake, a bridge rises,
bright oak simple, steady.
And the tree stands alone,
its arms wide,
a mother watching over her children.

Helicopter seed
comes to rest on the green moss —
A princess in bed

The tree on the hill, the strong and majestic oak, has roots spreading out beyond the safety of its beautiful canopy.

Could he be the roots that steady this noble oak tree, protecting it against all in war and peace? He doesn't know he helps to hold her steady in the storm.

Could she be the faith-filled canopy that covers the roots of this righteous tree, offering the beautiful acorn seeds that help share the love and good luck to the deep roots beyond the ground?

Like the oak tree and its roots, they both steady one another without knowing what each other does. Can our souls steady each other and love so deeply without revealing it?

They will always be connected, like the tree on the hill that produces beautiful flowers of hope in the fall, which is when they reconnect by the heart.

They both are like this tree, filled with wisdom. This wisdom gives the oak longevity and slow growth, which makes it so wise.

The longevity of their connection has been there from the start. They both have just hidden it deep inside their hearts.

Like the tree on the hill, the roots and tree are connected like souls mended together.
We may not understand it, but we hold onto this connection, one which we never knew we had.

Just like the oak tree's connection with its roots, she will be there for him, and he will be there for her, like the tree on the hill, taking care of one another from below to above.

You carved our initials
into the tree we kissed under.
It was our first kiss
and you told me you loved met.
I responded in the chirp of the birds
the howl of the wind
the rustle of the leaves.
We drove home in different cars
down different roads
and you found a new home.
I drove back to the tree
my fingers feel your name
and I call out.
I hear your response in the chirp of the birds
the howl of the wind
the rustle of the leaves.

The ancient oak
wears a cloak
of hoary old bark
and scalloped leaves.

She raises high her limbs,
writes silent hymns
that the nested larks
turn to music with ease.

A thousand years
on this blue sphere
has this oak thrived
under countless moons

aloof from the cares
we people may share:
She’s simply alive
to write her secret tunes.

Always glistened under the rays of the sun,
The warmth on the leaves always reflected to your surroundings,
Head in the clouds,
So try and explain
How have you managed to make it so far down here?
Once the greenest leaves,
Now all turned to a dark brown
When did you stop caring?
When did you become this sickening thing?
When did you lose your way?
This is all your own doing,
You dark, oak tree.

Through my two eyes of pain
I saw a half hidden tree cut
A tree born before plenty years
fell to ground within few minutes
her caring pretty hands,
her long, thin fingers
and all the birds houses
together killed without mercy

I heard her scream
I heard her cry
I heard her plead
but only I heard her
not a single soul did
but those tiny, tweeting birds
understood her parting words
and flew away with painful tears

Very few feel sad for them
They, who cut their saviours
never worry about them
but when these warriors
show their mightiest powers
and take revenge on them
A large worry and cry
for these shameless cowards