Forest Imaginae

My books are in trees,
Made of trees.
Restraining my opinions,
As the soft breath of clouds
The incredible ambience of sounds
Alive and deceased, rocks and birds
The rambling hooves from heards
Echoed across the forest plain.

Exiting the road before the toll
The elevator to my soul
Making my own satisfaction known
That reasoning is a useful action,
One day leading to our interaction.

My memories are in trees,
Made of trees.
The casual leaf of fall;
Falling, falling for it all.
Held up by the clouds' offspring
Gradually the birds, they sing.

Nature has it's way of curing,
The tranquility is reassuring,
That here I find
My peaceful, collaborated mind.