treesong

The night
is a colour
a tint of grey
with careless splatterings of sepia
it is the sleet
biting into coherent thoughts
wearing their edges out
and making them
examples of conformance
any dissidence torn apart by the wind.

The wind
is a feeling
sharper than sight or touch
lashing out in all directions
it knows no light, knows no shadow
it knows only form
seeking it always to break it down
till there are no mountains
and all that once stood in the line of sight
are washed away by the rain.

The rain
is an alphabet
a song in each drop
a story in each trail
it leaves on your skin
it is rain that falls on your face
but it is sweat and tears and blood
that runs down your body to the concrete
and you leave muddy footprints on the ground
that are soaked up by invisible roots of forgotten trees.

The tree
is a silent song
that is heard by all and none
reaching out from the ground
and into the heavens, arms outstretched
it hears the stories of the wind
and hears the stories of the rain
an hears the stories of a million footsteps
we shall wither but new leaves shall grow
and the treesong will echo in the empty realms of thought.