Her perfume was unusually acrid;
The Cedar Trees wrinkled
Their olfactory sensors.
They knew the scent of despair upon her cheeks,
Red apple as the Fruited cousins.

They petitioned the wind
To wave them
Gentle as a grandmother’s rocker,
Soothing a whoosh into her umber tresses.

It caused her angry gait to pause.
It reminded her to breathe.

She touched the nearest Tree
In deep appreciation.

The Tree, in reply,
Drank the exchange,
Expelling love,
Which, previously undetectable
By modern science,
Enriched the immediate vicinity;
Rose colored O2
Which her aura absorbed.

Indeed, since she was little,
She knew her place in the world
Was with the Trees.

Oh yes, human born.
She understood all that.

Still her heart communed
Always with the Glens,
Forested sanctuaries that
Quieted her vagabond soul.

And the Trees kept her story
In wordless vigil,
As Trees do -
Through the soil
Root to limb;
Through the air
Leaf to core;
And
Through the vibrations of her singing.

They were her sentinels,
Keepers of her tears,
Witness to her joy,
Markers of her journey,
They had kept many a watch
Through all of her 3D lives.

They would always be true
For there was no other way
For them to be -
The true tellers of her tale.

10/23/2012

Posted on 10/23/2012
Copyright © 2025 Alison McKenzie