The softest voice
Brings a smile to my face
Secrets are shared
In this holiest place
Boughs creak and sway
Reaching out to me
Listening to what they say
Whispers of what will be
We talk of seasons past
Of those yet to come
Of things that will last
And where we are from
But the day grows long
So I must take my leave
While they whisper a song
To the story they weave
Stoic Poetry
Through The Cracked Window (Revisited) 