It is almost gone now,
Only the hard and tough oaks
Remain to carry the song.
They sway less and less as
There is not much left to catch the wind.
But the wind still blows, it comes in waves and churns the ocean of trees.
One tree after another reacts to the wind’s hand, its push, its power.
Some bed in a flurry of dancing of limbs,
Some hold their ground, refusing to bend to the will of the wind.
The wildness of the wind comes in stages,
Craziest at the tree tops,
More subtle midway down with only a modicum of movement
Just feet above the ground.
I’ve often wondered if their roots feel the pull and tug of the wind.
Are they dying to let go of the earth and fly away?
And when the leaves have all fallen, the wind’s song fades completely,
Losing its soft voice.
The summer’s soft song is replaced by the harsh clacking of naked branches and
The howling of frozen limbs in the dead of winter’s endless nights.
I hate to see the leaf song go,
I will miss is warmth and rustling.
But I will hold its song within,
Deep within, and sing it to myself in the dark time to come
When all in solemn stillness sleeps.