The Trees

At seven, when dusk slips over the mountains The tress start whispering among themselves. They have been standing still all day, But now they stretch their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, flexing their fingers, Remembering the time when They too walked the Earth with men. They know me well, these tress; Oak and walnut, spruce and pine, They know my face in the window, They know me for a dreamer of dreams, A world-looser , one of them. They watch me while, I watch them grow. I listen to their whispering, Their own mysterious diction; And bow my head before their arms And ask for benediction...