I Wake Up Late

I wake up to the sound of trees Whispering among themselves Perhaps about my habit of waking Up late. All the birds are gone to Pick worms at the river side or to Be with the farmers in the fields. They may be whispering about My laziness. All the clouds have Veered towards the horizon to Doze off till descending of eve. Flowers have already unfolded Their petals and in a happy mood Releasing fragrance to the bees. The trees don't know I was there With them all through the night. Scribbling down poems in the Memory of those trees who are Gone into the greed of men. I became a poet last night to let My pen bleed prayers to save Those left to sing songs with The wind in the early morning. The trees don't know how much My heart cried last night when I Could not watch the moon through Their branches and lulled me to sleep. You go on whispering. I am happy To hear your sound when I get up. May be a little late but you are there.