I shiver as the wind blows through the garden
Loving the gentle whisper of bells that follows
Soon the bells will ring no more
I hate winter
I hate the silence brought on by it’s harsh cold
Only broken by the howling of the wind
No whispering bells
People don’t visit me in winter
Not that they ever truly come for me any other time of the year
Or maybe they do, they just don’t even know it themselves
I listen none the less
My grandma once told me that’s our job: to listen
Her voice would echo gently,
“A good listener brings peace to all who have the courage to say what’s on their heart.”
I believed her, but I always wondered how people knew we were listening
“Let the wind give your leaves breath to sing. They’ll know.”
“Our ancestors,” she would tell me, “Heard the creation of man.”
I suppose ever since that first day it’s been our job to listen
To hold the secrets people release to us
As much as I hate winter
I need a break from listening
Maybe that’s why my leaves fall every year,
The secrets I hear can be too heavy for me
I think that’s true of all secrets
