Psalm of the Trees

Their dance has begun.
Prancing and swaying, rocking and shifting,
they progress fluidly through a complex series of moves
which seem without design and yet linked.
All are dressed in their finest, although they have never learned
to dress themselves.

The gilt-edged dusty green solemnly guards the gate,
although he turns away no visitor.
The scarlet is unashamed of her slender frame,
shining with brazen beauty.
The deep burgundy leans quietly back, less ready to proclaim herself,
but confident in her rich appeal.
The tall jade stands solidly with ageless face and simple robe,
hiding secrets long forgotten.
The orange raises his feathery head in defiance of change,
declaring he's undefiled and unforlorn, yet he is mistaken.
The tender yellow, unable to hide her dimpled cheek,
lowers her gaze around her many admirers.
The rust, though dressed in tattered rags,
distributes generously his stories of heroes and tales of conquest.
The gold, barely bending over her ample middle,
smiles to each passer-by and whispers, "Have good cheer!
Summer will come again to thee."

The complexity of the dance increases,
demanding a sudden swell of song.
The solemn green, the brazen scarlet, the confident burgundy,
the ageless jade, the defiant orange, the tender yellow,
and, yes, the ample gold, too—
their dance is one, and their song is one,
melding into one praise.

And, I—
And.
I.
How shall I complete this grand "and, I?"
As if the trees and I think but one thought:
They have sung theirs; now I must sing mine.
But the knowledge of singing I have misplaced in autumns past.
Tempered by sorrow and silenced by burdens,
I can find no ending to this "and, I."

And, yet, with my artless admission,
I find the psalm of the trees rising in my soul.
"Let everything that has breath."
My own silent song departs from theirs,
rooted deeply in the secrets of my soul,
the shards of my life that only He knows:
"Praise the Lord, O my soul."

I am poor, with nothing to offer.
Not even my heart is an undivided gift.
I have nothing to offer,
save my honesty.
And so I say to my God,
"Grief and sorrow I have in plenty.
I do not lack anger and doubt.
Fear has become my companion.
But one thing I know: these will all pass away,
while Your love will remain forever.
"Praise the Lord, O my soul."

And the answer returns, though I had not asked.
The mellow gold echoes her refrain, "Have good cheer!
Summer will come again to thee."