Speak softly, gentle cedars,
a lullaby to the winged children.
Those who presume to
haunt your privet boughs, nestled in
cradles of sticks and straw.
Those who thieve the
spice and sunshine
from your leafy limbs to feed
their tiny souls.
Those who braved the perils of snow
with feathered fortitude
and those who return only now,
when the season is warm
and ripe to fill the nest.
Scarlet robes and plain janes,
poets who whisper in the sighing wind
and sentinels who scream at dawn.
Hushed be the melody
and tender the sway of branches
that soothes these innocents in your keep,
as April joins the chorus.