The poetry of trees is such That their leaves rustle much When they do branches shake And words begin to break From buds into fruit Aided by sun’s pursuit Once they ripen They fall to the ground In verseless chaos abound Awaiting in patient silence A passer-by’s gentle guidance Their task is of simple nature Order words and heed their stature To create verses and stanzas Maybe rhymes: perfect, rich, eye-like When their work is duly done And the blackness of ink is gone The trees rustle contently Between verses they had created The poetry of trees is such That their leaves rustle much Should you choose to listen intently And with poems become friendly You’ll discover the sweetness of fruit Of which words and verses are root