Trees

When it's really windy in my neighborhood the older taller pines whistle and crack in the winter. They sound almost like a live orchestra. The bark rubs back and forth on other trees like a violin and bow and when the wind blows through the hollow branches it sounds like flutes and recorders. Which reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Alfred Joyce Kilmer. It's called Trees (1913):

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.