I was walking through the woods once;
A canopy of golden lit green above, and,
From within, a call to contemplation.

The sound of leaves dancing in the breeze,
Like a language of sorts whispered only be trees.
The mossy scented tones and rugged hints of bark;
Earthy comforts reminiscent of humankinds first home.

But what struck me most was but a single tree,
Towering and tall, standing still, strong, and silent;
Branches like arms embracing all that bowed below.

The aged wrinkles like ancient words
That told a story of eons eclipsed by the long march of time.
Its knots and gnarls like battle scars born
Of its countless wars of will and winter.

Its silence is what spoke to me.
A silence heavy with the weight of a wisdom
That has, thus far, stood the test of time.

And to this silence I spoke, not with words,
But with songs and sighs which only souls can speak.
All my secrets, hopes, and dreams.
All the joy and suffering;
all my smiles and tears from yesteryear.

Silence and the soul is the language of the Listening Tree.

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