Vociferous coniferous, mellifluous deciduous
Since birth I've had the habit
Of talking to the trees.
The birches have a sweet voice,
The willow whispers.
They tell me things,
Silly things, sombre things,
The way any other person would.
They gossip even more.
Under drooping garrulous boughs
I hear how foxes have moved in by the creek,
How fraught the journey of the swallows was last week.
I'm told of rumours of a new painting by the clouds
With no help from the proud and jealous sun.
The pine's gleeful burr speaks of which new fields the sheep roam
The oak's deep baritone scolds the collie dog
For not doing a good enough job.

Since Spring I've had the hobby
Of wailing to the water.
I tell it all my deepest fears,
My darkest secrets,
And my kindest, wisest friend
Is kind and wise enough to drink them down.
And deposit them in the darkest depths of her flooded floor.
Where mile long things that haven't seen the sun,
And jellied fish and saffron schools and strange bug-eyed sea-beasts and what else down there God's done
Keep life in the Hadal Zone cool and slow
Dazzled by the underwater disco
Held by angler-fish and rainbow slugs
who have no use for troubles of the far above.

You'll soon pick up the habit
Of whispering to winds.
Nature speaks,
(Although she's quiet)
To all of her brethren.
Nature cares
(Alhough she's frightening)
For each one of her kin.