The oldest tree
sags slowly to earth,
its longest, wiriest branch
dipping near my ear
as if to whisper something.
On golden Autumn afternoons,
the woods are a hubbub
of conversation,
the listeners few.
One oak tinkles a tune
from an old piano,
hums its delicate melody;
another scatters
a brash lover's poetry;
a third is a wrinkled soothsayer,
a thousand truths
making faces in its bark.
No matter where I walk,
upper boughs creak
with information,
leaves bristle in many tongues.
Why else would I keep
returning to this forest
but to someday know
what it knows.
— John Grey