Our Humble Tree Is Not All It Seems… Poem by Will Gibbs

Crowned with an envious wreath of foliage
Our humble tree is not all it seems
We see them as living but devoid of feeling
I have seen their faces, heard their screams
When the North winds blow and snap their bones
All we humans see their leaves as mere garments
Inform a tree of this, he will be most annoyed
“They are not garments as you crudely put,
They are as what you would call skin”
We see the puddles auburn, dun and vivid
They are not a beauteous as we perceive them be
The puddles we see are of stolen possessions
The trees screaming, not relenting, for want of their return
Naked, until their new suit is tailored the following spring

Do not see these divine beauties, as mere features
See them as citizens, inhabiting a rural corner
They have more right to breathe this very air
They use their own time and patience to make this world
Yet we see them as mere servants, here only for us to paint
Mistake them not, for they are known to hold a grudge
But worry not; they will most certainly accept your apology
When you next stand before such fine specimens of life
Bite your tongue and do not do as instinct tells, and log this man
Just lend and ear, and listen to his lustful voice, and ask for his forgiveness
Next time the trees bow and bend to tell one another their deeds and progress
They may even include you in such conversations,
You’d be surprised they things they get up to, when we are not looking