In the Grove of Aspens

The aspen trees stand tall,

but they gently stand aside,

to let the stealthy passer

silently pass by.

They space themselves like generals

At attention on a march,

Standing in stern assembly,

With straight trunks without an arch.

Their leaves quiver and tremble,

as the slightest wind pass by,

Sometimes they let in spirits

breezing in to live or die.

And at the smallest touch

of the smallest spirit child,

The small green shingles rattle forth

and whisper on for miles.

Their trunks are striped with markings
like eyes cracked opened whole,

to see them stare,

you'd think a while,

since they've seen a living soul.