Psithurism Poem by Dr Shamim Ali

The trees are speaking in their ancient tongue,
a language older than the words we've sung
each leaf a syllable, each branch a phrase,
whispered through the long forgotten days.
It starts as nothing, just a gentle stir,
a breath that makes the summer grasses blur,
then rises through the canopy above
like secrets shared between the wood and grove.
The oak tree murmurs low and deep and slow,
the aspen shivers, trembling head to toe,
the willow sighs like sorrow given sound,
while pine trees hum their hymns to hallowed ground.
This is the world's own lullaby at dusk,
the rustle of the leaves, the dry sweet husk
of autumn's voice, the green choir of the spring
psithurism, the forest's offering.
So listen when the wind sweeps through the boughs,
when nature keeps her most enchanted vows,
for in that sound, that soft symphonic rush,
we hear the earth itself exhale its hush