Chest of Tales

I look in the water’s reflection,
And see the trees above me.
Their branches that hang limp,
As if weighted down by the knowledge they’re holding.

The secrets, lies, and treacherous pasts,
Of passion, love, yearning,
Have all been whispered into this chest of tales,
Etched into them, fixed, for safe keeping.

They seem so serene and powerful,
Yet also calm and wise.
As if learning from all the tales they’ve been told,
All the hushed and whispered lies.

The branches of these wondrous trees,
The fingers of a pianist,
Whether growing wild or playing keys,
Are still God’s gifts to his dearests.

So here I stand and begin to question,
Why haven’t I noticed before?
That these things are so precious,
Yet we keep cutting down more.