35

Chantara stepped into the woods and saw tons of trees.

Into the jocund day the tree stood as cheerleader to each passing spirit.

The tree in the ever-hug of the atmosphere, crows the hillock and flourishes both wand and foliage.

Tree bark is the brown fingerprint of my soul, for as I touch it I feel a divine connection spark.

The tree leans into the sunny rays as if they were lovers in eternal trance.

Though black heavens and sun-lit days, the tree is sentry to landscape, the stoic guardian of so many souls.

The tree is the grand poem of the living world, a beauty that encourages the spirit to dance though words, to make our odes to it's branches that spread heaven-bound. And in the strong light of the new day it creates a kiss for the senses in those moving leaves, the thousand green hues and the soft whispering in the wind.

There in the centre of a million grassy wands stands a tree, her bark so patterned as if carved by her own rain-born flash rivers. She stretches up, as if so pr