Wisdoms from the maple

With pen and paper in hand, I settle myself,

Listening with intent,

Patiently awaiting the knowledge and solitude they share –

These ancient storytellers.

The gentle kiss of the breeze unlocks their vault of wisdom,

Unties their tongues, unleashing their tales of time,

Etched in golden sunlight underneath each leaf.

Stories scrolled in jagged burls, like notches in a music box,

Their memories begin to sing,

Unlocked by the winding of the wind.

These stories, these histories can only ever be sung,

Passed down through whispered ballads since the beginning.

These conversations rise and fall with the intensity of the wind that reveals them –

Their laughter, their anger, their woe, their melancholy,

Their wisdom lay open for any willing to listen,

Any weary traveler taking solace in the comforting shade,

Or seeking shelter from a soaking rain.

The birds live by this song.

The wisdom it carries serves as a welcome and warming

Of what was and is to come.

Wisdom written and stored on each towering shelf.

Some shelves lush with life, some bare and wounded,

Other scarred and broken – each tuned to its own timbre,

Each holding its own vat of glorious secrets.

Today the song is strong, vibrant.

The verses swaying in crescendo,

Staccato notes demanding attention and praise,

Sweet whispers interrupt, compelling them to take a breath

And reset their melody.

Only a brief moment is needed to allow the buzz of the wasp

And the cicada to reign clear – if only to pass along

The tale being told.

This chorus is different from the strained, haunting whistle of winter,

Unlike the crackle and rustle of fall.

This song is warm and full of harmony.

This song is a symphony of histories belonging to those from the past,

A conversation – the back and forth of lifelong friends

Telling tales of old.

Their tales dance along the frivolous breeze,

Carried for miles to friend and foe.

Secrets that float through the sky and skip across water,

Into the caverns and valleys, over the fields and plains,

Taunting the silky wild rye, gossiping to its grains.

They speak, and I listen to the gift they provide – these ancient storytellers.

They sing, and I collect each memory and store them

In a longing heart.

-by Rebecca Ausbrooks

About the Author: As a proud native of Kentucky, I’ve made my home in Bowling Green, where I share my life with my husband and our two amazing kids. My journey has taken me through Western Kentucky University, where I earned my Bachelor’s degree and am now pursuing a Master’s in Learning Behavior Disorders. A dreamer at heart, I find solace in nature and the beauty within it. Art and family have always been incredibly important to me, inspiring me to approach each day with a grateful heart. I often find myself pausing to appreciate the beauty around me, recognizing it as a reflection of God’s gifts and wisdom, especially while walking through life’s challenges. It’s this intentional search for beauty and wisdom that fuels my creativity.