poetry

The Walking House

The trees whisper to me,
as we walk passed ‘em.

We hike along the tree line
your hand intermingles with mine,     We kiss.
 
“Come on,”     I motion you to the woods.
“This is my walking house.
It’s a sacred place.
a place of memories,
of love, hope and of faith.”
I introduce you to each tree.
as we stroll down the path
under the canopy of leaves.

I need the trees,
these proud silent majestic beasts,
hanging over my soul.
As I lie under their branches,
scribbling in my notebook,
they acquaint me with the life
which passes beneath.

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