As the wind blasts by, my leaves fly high.

Rising and flowing to some other place, and away from the sight of my wooden face.

The days grow shorter and nights grow long, I fall asleep to winter’s song.

When I awake a new season will sing, flowers will tickle my toes, and I will know it is spring.

I’ll dig my roots deep as drink from the ground, living in a world surrounded by sound.

Listening to the calls of the owl and the lark, the sounds make me tingle, seeping into my bark.

The sound of the sun beating down like a drummer, I’ll hear them all in the season of summer.

But I can only pray in my sleep each day, that these sounds will reach my ears in May.

For the one sound I hope i’ll never hear in my slumber, is the hacking and chopping, the sound of cutting lumber.

- Casey Khaje