When the breeze of a cool March afternoon
intertwines with the warmth of the sun’s rays
and dancing a seductive waltz they glide along the tree tops
caressing the leaves as they go, they awake them, the trees.
It is on days like these that I feel it the most,
the whispers, the soft voices of the trees as the
afternoon falls into the evening to put the day to sleep,
the whispering trees that celebrate the night to come.
They look down to find their victim,
a poor heartbroken girl who stares up at the sky
with the wondering eyes of a dreamer,
to make her suffer, to harvest her tears as rain from the sky.
And today they chose me, those whispering trees,
and as the wind ruffles their thousands of leaves,
each leaf brushing against another making them hiss,
they pronounce a name that cuts through to me deep.
They whisper things to me
and revive memories long ago forgotten
long ago put away, buried and left behind,
they whisper what could have been and what is not.
And tears gather up on the edges of my eyes
and the trees rejoice thinking it is rain that’s come to greet them,
as they spill, their greedy leaves dance more and more
calling more tears over as they want to drink but no rain comes.
Just my tears as they run down my face and onto my chest,
the trees don’t care about these false rain drops so they
turn their attention somewhere else
to cause more pain to another suffering soul.
And I kept weeping in the dark corner of the room
where my small bed laid asleep underneath me
and nobody heard me only the whispering trees that with
egotism evoked the pain that now was so hard to push through.