Talking Trees

The trees spoke in whispers,
their voices tangled in the wind,
rustling leaves, a quiet chorus,
telling stories of roots deep in the earth,
and the long stretch of years.
They didn't shout or sing,
just murmured in their own language,
a language of sap and bark,
of creaking branches that bent with the weight of time,
but never broke.
When the rain came,
they sighed in relief,
a soft hum of gratitude,
their thirst quenched by the sky's gift.
In the winter, they stood silent,
their voices muffled by the cold,
but even then,
if you listened close enough,
you could hear them,
speaking of patience,
of waiting for the warmth to return.
They told me secrets,
secrets they had shared with no one else,
about the birds that nested in their arms,
and the children who climbed them,
once long ago.
And as I listened,
I realized the trees had always been speaking,
I just hadn't known how to hear them.