I have one, don’t you?
Do you think it odd
That I have poems in my trees?
The birds read them
Before they settle in for the night
They make songs of them,
Practicing quite hard
Until they are ready to sing them.
I strung words among the branches
And watched the birds weave them
Into words only they and I understand.
Sweet-smelling, harbinger words.
As the morning light bends
The birds try out my poems
Sifting through them until they find one,
Just one,
That says what they want to say.
With morning light
The words of the birdsong,
Written on the wind in tree sap,
Make poetry for all time.
Hmm…I tend to think of birds and such leaving poems in my tree (or whatever) for *me* to read. 
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