When The Leaves Are Rotting

There is an old tree on the lawn And although I am not always there I carry it with me wherever I go It is a pillar throughout the year And from a lofty perch up in it I enjoy the cradling of the wind. When the bending heartwood speaks I hug the branch I'm so often on. When the season is full and green Leaves flicker silver in the sun. There is so much that never stops 'Til the light takes another turn. But I know that I am just visiting And that tourists don't see things As they are in the clearness of day Where dreams of anxiety fill heads Of people that tell long stories About climbing trees and falling Leaves that sprouted in spring How the song of birds resounded... People walk under its boughs Dreaming of a place up on high For it truly seems splendorous When you climb up and don't stay Like leaves do working non stop They don't know why they do it They simply follow their design It is a form of predeterminism And so as a tourist I pity them Throughout all of their seasons Where a man tells them stories And stories of dreams and dreams I can see my house from up here Yet what the world doesn't know Is that when the leaves are rotting It is their sweetest time of all

CuldeSac

What are words without understanding and what is understanding without sense?

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