In a quiet glade where whispers of the breeze play,
Stands a Poet Tree, with boughs which sway,
Its limbs entwined in verses wild and free,
Where leaves of parchment rustle with poetry.

A gentle soul, it sings to the sky ever so high,
Its roots dig deep in earth's embrace to spy,
On tales of love and loss, of joy and plight,
It gathers wisdom from the searching moonlight.

Upon branches bent like quills, it scribes the day,
In hues of green, it weaves a woven tale to be,
Of sonnets soft, and ballads bold and free,
For all to know who pass its way to see.

The Poet Tree, a sentinel of lore,
Its fruit is knowledge, forevermore.
A guardian of the wood, it surely speaks,
In tongues of rustling leaves, it never leaks.

The creatures gather 'round, both big and small,
To hear the tree yet recite its mournful call,
Of ancient times, and future's mystery,
In every rhyme, indeed, there is a piece of history.

The Poet Tree, in silence, does understand,
The hearts of all whom hold its hand.
It shares its wisdom with the eager bee,
And paints the world with shards of fated destiny.

So come, my friends, and rest beneath its shade,
Where stories blend and secrets fade,
Let the tree's sweet verses set us free,
In its embrace, we are, in deed, all a part of the poetry.

© Travis Allen King aka DTH