Monday, December 28, 2009



I step out into the cool night air
I find some comfort there
The willow weeps
The shadows creep
Along the darkened stair
The darkness urges whispers
Gentle under tones
The haunted Oak
And the wild flowers spoke
To nightingale in flight
I yearn to know their secrets
Their unheard memories
They have no care
That I sit there
Whispers of the Trees


1 comment:

  1. We need that sometimes - to sit still, alone, and hear only whispers. Lovely poem!!