A few months ago I mistakenly heard someone say the word ‘poetrees’ in lieu of the word ‘poetry’. It’s a word mash-up I haven’t been able to shake from my mind. I wrote it down in my notebook and left it there all alone. Today I woke to the pattering of rain and trees whistling in the wind and knew it was time to write about those poetrees.
Winter’s voice thunders at my roof,
The trees are tapping out words on my windows,
Scribbling meter, rhyme, and verse with scraggly stick fingers.
The wind whispers their poems in my waiting ears.
They write of the earth, tucked safely under frosted blankets,
Of lightning striking white willows, turning them black with despair
And the blessed rain washing away the soot and sins of man.
Cloud faces drain themselves of color, weeping with relief,
Watering the souls of shy maples and ancient oaks.
The storm takes a breath,
Gutters usher its remnants into the sodden soil.
The poetrees withdraw their pencils from my windowpane.,
And I am left bathed in silence.