Voices on the Wind Voices in the Garden
The Tree by J.R. Robert-Saavedra High-up above the canyon floor Where the eagles soar Upon a crack in a slab of rock Among some droppings and refuse A seed gave root. A tree sank its fingers As it grabbed for a hold Into the stern face Of the fiery red rock It defied gravity It challenged the wind. Deep into the rock’s bosom Its fingers went It drank its milk it grew High-up and over the canyon’s floor So far below The tree spread its hair to the sun It shouted a flower to the world. But, the rocks dried-up their bosom And weakened the tree The sun baked the tree’s hair And baked its arms Gravity and the wind Plucked the tree’s flowers away And played with him at will They twisted the tree into a caricature. Today a gnarled and twisted figure Petrified in its agony Lifts its skeletal hands to heaven In eternal supplication And the wind steals from its parched lips A whispered prayer That no one hears.