trees would speak
they would whisper and creek
and let us know who was there
their limbs stretched high in the air
i'd play with the needles
of those sequoia pines
thread them together to make
needle dolls who'd dance and shake
or chains for necklaces & wreaths in my hair
threading in wildflowers from the meadow's chair
I'd sit for hours on the fine log
and listen to the conversation of the trickle creek frog
Then the sun would dip lower nearly touch the evening time
and that's when the cries would start in the distance chime
Cries are undescribeable by the mountain lion's call
They echo a hunt and warning that should be headed by all.
Then my needles I would gather as fast as I could
for that cry was a warning I knew never to ignore or brood
Mom would be waiting, and with needles and sticks
she'd kindle the fire and start it up quick.
And the trees would start to whisper and groan
changing tempurature and currents brought on by the evening storm
and we'd all stand by the fire- so toasty and warm
and listen to the trees talk, living in the fireside calm.
