Among the ancient billowing leaves, beneath the green, soft forest eaves, regal and righteous rooted firmly below lives the miniscule one we help to grow, with stretching arms not half the size, but perfect in those clear-leaf eyes; and silken foliage not quite the hue of ones larger, duller, rotting through . . . through millenias of time--not reaching the edge-- near the waterfall, too close to the ledge: living for years more prevalent than I, a tree with wisdom that shines in thine eyes. It knew the day of beasts long gone, the day of the dove, and the one of the fawn; and before that, the day of beauteous nymphs who lived therein its tiny limbs; and now, it knows our song of the lark, written in foreign tounges, there, in its bark . . . the jealous monsters surrounding its lair, breathing deeper the thinner air, who envy its stature, so small, sap so sweet, who envy its song of the day we did meet; not one tree more royal, or kinder than thee, or who loves a nymph more adoring than me. Long after out last day, it will reign on to sing to small creatures who knew of our song, those tomorrows we hold now so tightly, so dear, to strew seeds of hope to all who come near; larger than life, but smaller than those who stand on tired ground 'til winter does close-- watching, always watching our graceful, thin limbs which hold magical leaves to whistle each season's winds with a tune so fair, I've known it since birth, yet ne'er did I dream I would bask in its mirth-- the voice of an angel, the most precious sound, echoing thereafter the breezes die down.
Reason for writing:
I wrote this about two years ago, when I was seventeen, on a trip to the forest with my boyfriend. I'm nineteen now, and he is my fiance.
Birth sign: Not entered
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