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...