On a bright, misty morning,
    I walked in the trees.
Saplings here and there were scattered.
    Some emerging, reaching for the sun.

Others larger were dancing
    in the cool morning breeze.
Their large leaves playing a song,
    So playful, so easily sung.

Then I noticed the saplings
    were no more.
It seemed they were forever gone.
    With their song, they’d sung.

Now, where the saplings stood
    are sturdy young trees.
Their trembling leaves now tease,
    as their youthful song they sung.

I returned again
    to walk in the trees.
These trees sturdy and young,
    were now yesterdays song sung.

A quiet peace fills me
    for before me stand large mature trees.
Gracing the sun, their leaves
    a rich new song they sung.

Their shimmering shade welcomed,
    from the hot noonday sun.
For from high above the song,
    of a chick-a-dee and nuthatch rung.

When I once more walked in the trees,
    These graceful mature trees were dying.
Their golden leaves had fallen
    and their branches play a new song sung.

As I walked again in the trees,
    scattered here and there
The mature trees decaying
    brought memories of another song sung.

Yet again, I returned to walk in the trees,
    where the mature trees had stood.
Saplings here and there are scattered
    some just emerging, reaching for the sun.

Others larger were dancing
    in the mornings cool breeze.
Their large leaves playing a song,
    so playful, so easily sung.

 Tim Kirby
 June 18, 2001