The singing tree
Stands at the end
Of a long old garden,
Its airy beauty
Cherished by the wind.
Leaf and branch
The chosen hiding place
Of the sun.

Snow and ice,
Hard times and long drought
Fall upon it.
Shaking them away,
Persevering always
In its Being.

This is the tree
The angel visited
That long ago morning,
Wide face smiling
Among the leaves,
Letting the little shadows
Offer their shelter.

The singing tree
Sings of the quiet strength
Of wild places,
Of the certainty that hope
Can balance a mountain
On the tip of a finger.

              ©2022 Gwen Grant

5 thoughts on “THE SINGING TREE

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