The weight of my branches, I cannot hold;
The countless nights of chill and fog
have caused my branches to look very old.
Can you help me kind sir or the kind dog?
The man will walk, never hear my thought
above the howling wind, you see. It loves
to shadow every move, yet I cannot
combat the wind, with a golden glove.
O why o why can they not hear my cry?
Do I not sell the yell and the bellow?
Am I too quiet? Do branches not sigh?
A kind dog hears and offers a hello.
At last, a someone has perceived my please,
A soul who cares about the poor old trees.
~Helen
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