The leaves hear me

The leaves hear me

or so I like to think,

the idea of the branches

reaching out their twisted hands.

To believe that they listen

to all the stories they hear.

Do you think they ponder

or are their thoughts trapped? 

I wonder if yet

the roots buried in the soil

hear the conversations 

of the ones that stand above.

Or perhaps

when the forests croak

and the woods lack sleep

they are signalling.

Signalling their understanding

that they are listening

that they hear you

that the leaves hear you.