THE ASPEN’S TINY CYMBALS

Tiny cymbals
Clinking, clinking
Ten thousand or more
Filling with a tiny roar
Space, where only moments before,
Silence reigned.

I heard the sound late today
While it was still far away.
It floated up the tiny draw
First the clinking, then I saw

The Aspens’ quaking
Leaves a shaking
As the breeze
Lent them fresh life.

Each tiny leaf
Stood in sharp relief
Against the Autumn sky.
The leaves colored red and yellow,
For each had begun to die.

I watched them shake
And breathed a sigh
Ans as the breeze passed near
Each spoke a word for only me to hear.

I watched the breeze pass
And I waved to the brown Autumn grass
Which surrounded the soon to be sleeping trees,
As each stem waved
"Round their unbending knees.

These trees will be here
When Spring brings forth
New leaves, fresh thoughts
For some passing soul to hear.

But for now even I can see
This land is soon to be
Under a blanket of softest snow.
Trees dreamin’ dreams which Man can never know.

No more cymbals
Clinking, clinking
As the trees stand sleeping
Dreaming, dreaming.

Dreaming of Spring’s mellow breath
Escaping in sleep,
Their thoughts too deep
For mortal man to be aware
Or much less express a mortal care,

For leaves and grass, and normal things
Which stand and watch
As we each pass.

As we each ripple and wave
To the rhythm of Infinity’s breeze
As it gently ripples
"Cross Mankind’s leaves.
****