It these trees could talk...
maybe they'd tell you
what you really need,
maybe they'd breathe
your own secrets,
whisper the way.
Maybe that's what they always did;
it's not just a breeze
because no breeze makes a noise
without an instrument;
it was the leaves all along
talking to you,
gone now.
Maybe that's why
winter withers us
not because of the cold
not because of the short light
but because of the snow
that eats the voice
of those who we never listened.
Great photos and very interesting writing! I particularly enjoyed the last few verses...they're my type of dark, I guess :)) You should write more poetry :)
Thanks, Honey! Well, I've written few poems now recently - it's the manifestation of my restless soul trying to escape or something :)
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