The Sounding Trees Poem by Orin MSH

I often wonder what the trees
Who in their silence seemed
To always have the sound of these
Confounding clamor of troubled dreams?
Are close together as in days
That suffer the weather's inclement
Tempers, struck by their darkly face
That withers and rumbles in the cloud,
And limps & hobbles through the air.
These trees are gently poised and proud
They sound us swiftly; then move away
With wisdom that appears so knowing,
And grows wiser by the hours, knocking,
When worlds are whirled, they stay,
And chain the mountains by the roots
The evening breeze nudges and sways
Prometheus, Methuselah, The Bodhi Tree
The great oaks and sequoias of a verdant age
Endures the quakes' intemperate rage
Somewhere in time is made the choice
Some day to plant these seeds, the voice
And germs of life that toss and turn
In grief-aged woods that shall never burn
The whorls and spirals in the ring
Calm sages wait the longest time and pray
For sounds of deep tranquility they bring:
Their much mystic, arboreal way.

(Orin Marlais Keat: 3rd August 2022)