The Whispers

In the trees there is a whisper.  It is ever so soft and as natural as the leaves that fall from the branches.  This whisper is thrust about the forest, the lawns, the parks.  The branches of the trees throw this voice about like the ball that goes around the horn - one to another - a natural vibration and what does it say?

I like to think about what those trees are saying, what is this endless chatter?  Is it worthy, are their words strong,  would we bind them in leather and paint the edges of their pages gold for the world to see?  Would we put them on shelves and forget them or would we pull them down from time to time to draw strength or wisdom from these whispers. 

I like the music in the wind, and of all the songs and chords I have heard it is the soft, subtle whisper that gets me.  The tones so hard to get to that the beauty is in the tremble of vibrations.  The whistle of the leaves, waving like children waving from bus windows to moms and dads on porches.  The clinging of branches bending and swaying like waves crashing into a vacant shore, creating something that time remembers because it has been so common place.  But, even common things can be spectacular. 

If I were that tree, I would lend my voice to the singing birds, I'd look out for them, I'd be a stop in one their flights, I be words that they can't utter, I'd try be a friend. 

If I were that tree, I would sing my songs to the deer that graze beneath.  I'd praise the owl that calls out to the night, I'd give my trunk to the squirrel to spin around like garland on a banister coming down stairs into a room filled with everything the world is and can be. 

If I were that tree...but I'm not...and I will never be that tree.  Just the same but not.  Since I am not, I would like to contribute to that whisper.  To lend my humble song just in case he should have to go away.  To whisper into the wind if he should decay or be cut down.  Even in this effort I know that he will probably grow taller, grow stronger, he will spread his branches out like arms open wide; over patios, and church yards.He will see everything and that which he cannot see he will ask to the wind to let him know the answers.  He will send his seeds with those birds and those same winds to see more than he can, and eventually he will see everything. 

If that tree makes it farther, if that tree stands on the hillside and looks down on stone that bear my name I will be proud to see that tree. I would be proud for that tree to sing a song for me - but I request it only to be a whisper.  A whisper that tickles the pink furs of the Mimosa and glides across the solid surface of the magnolia.  I hope he will speak of honor!  I hope he will sing so softly that you think that it is me.  If that tree sways and breaks, when the thunder crashes and the lighting opens the night sky like drapes opening on Sunday morning, I will be there when that tree falls.  I will open my eyes when I hear the crash, I will quiver among the wake of this wave and in the wind will go my song, a song for you.  Words too long to write, words that have never been spoken.  Words in piles beside my bed, written by others and read by me.  Words that will change your life because they changed mine.  When the lightning stikes you will find the sweet things that I know and keep, the things you did not know I had or thought of.  You will see kindness as well as crazy, dignity and folly, check stubs that meant nothing and reciepts that meant everything.  Only when the sun rises on this mess will you see that it will be easy to clean up.  Rakes and lops and hands will come and hall this tree away and in the event that I am not there to pick up any of those branches...listen to the whisper of the wind...and that is where I will be.

{Inspired by a recent story - shared not told.  Lovely}