the trees of the field will clap their hands

you dance, but you don't know why
the breeze blows and your branches move
yet you don't comprehend
light plays through your boughs
leaves shimmer and clap their tiny hands
papery trunk stands tall while
roots anchor, continue to grow
and you don't understand
you just are, and be, and praise












photo by Paul Manickam


I do know my tree species, I promise! (despite the fact that I just posted a photo of maple branches with a poem about a birch tree)