john raymond raymond

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Pine

Tall wet ivy covered the tree, as old as age can possibly be,
standing before us in the forest pool, the calls of water thunder
down, high it falls, envious of the raindrop ripples of beauty in the
blue glass oasis pool below, they splash and then they slow,

the rings of a cut down tree release the sounds of a 100 years
of birds gone by, captured shrills for the loving of eternity's ears,
living in wood that is not yet dead, a door, a chair or a bed,
what will be made of you the carpenter is yet to have said,

the human ignorance cannot fathom those ghosts,
past down for all to hear, the rain the birds the sound
of a forest in a century of living, winters and summers,
we become, we grow into, we are with, and we are forest.

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