BILL PRINGLE

PUSHING PAINT


farmpainting

TREES THAT PRAY

Standing on high ground.
A summit thought seemed so profound.

Looking upon a forest swaying.
With arms outstretched as if they were praying.

The wind and rain must have swept the valley floor.
And turned their heads in orchestra.

Their boney arms reached for the sky.
While bowing to the passerby.

The image was as plain as day.
The relentless wind had shaped them that way.

November is most bleak and grey.
Wind and rain had made them pray.

I thought no more of trees that pray.
Until forty years had flown away.

Returning to the valley floor.
I would make the climb to the summit once more.

The trees I had seen but once before.
Had not changed their stance and prayed once more.

This time to the sun that lit the way.
Down through the valley throughout the day.

Perhaps the years had changed my view.
My interpretation of how they grew.

Or just a second chance to see.