A Quiet Place

I know a place where I may go, where silence speaks to me. Beyond the pasture of the farm, there is a stalwart tree. There I will rest and pass the time, and dream and breathe a sigh. And there I see a cryptic date, carved on a beech nearby. I know my father etched it there, so many years ago, commemorating who knows what, for only he would know. And he has gone but in his place, alone I find my way. It's on the ridge above the glen, where I would often play. Now you could go along with me, and gaze upon our creek. Then you may hear the secret too, of how the woods can speak. The only sound is wind and time, and trees that gently sway, not much unlike the forest voice, that I heard yesterday.