Living Tree Poetry

I sat on a bank once, as a child.
I listened to the pine branches above
move to their own melody
in the breeze,

and I smelt their scent,
enter into my heart, by a passage
I had not known was there,
to stain the memory.

So that now,
if you take me to the pines.
I will lie down and cry,
at the sound of wind,

in the trees.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry

Image:  Flickr, Berlt Sundman