Suddenly I heard the sound; it was
the sacred whispers. The whispers
come to me from the land, the
sky and the sea, and often they
urge me to be still. Above all,
the whispers signal change.
~ Margaret A. Renner
I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
a tree that looks at God all day,
and lifts her leafy arms to pray;
a tree that may in summer wear
a nest of robins in her hair;
upon whose bosom snow has lain
who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me
but only God can make a tree.