The Church In the Trees

The leaves rustle, As the trees tell their story. I lean against one and water it with my tears. I walk on. My pace slow. I remember when I was young. A child of three mabe four. I ran among the trees. A fairy or a bird. Laughing with my friends. Oh such innocence. I reach the forest's end. The trees part and grass has it's turn in the chorus of nature. An old church. It's white paint chipped, It's bell ringing no longer. Stands tall. Guarded by Angels. Blessed by song. So many times I had prayed here. So many times I had imagined coming back. The door creeks when it opens. Sturdy beyond it's age. A single bible remains. It's pages yellow. Names written inside the front cover. I run my fingers over the indentions of the letters. And I find the name of which I am looking. I close it and place it back where it was. I shuffle down the aisle. My feet rubbing on the aged carpet. I lean in front of the old wooden podium, Close my eyes. And pray for the hope long lost. The cross as my guide, The bible as my messenger.