The Sound Of Trees

I think no doubt concerning wood. Through the leaves I stand so still. With awe and wonder, why. It is more than noise the wind I hear. Each tree that stands is classified by noise. Therefore close your eyes in our addresses. We come to day to suffer from those, whom lost there place the place of all our joys. And I like they you would with all the scented wood. Measurements that fit the sky, until. And profit let us do them not like air which is now seen. And to be wiser, because you are brought up older. For the knowledge you lest not speak, less you give there place away and now that means. When pulling at my feet up off the floor, and you observing me the wood that shakes. Head trembling occasionally against your shoulder. From your window or the door. The sound of trees, the smell of wood, the hanging moss. I express green leaves, because somewhere, being little is, I grow.