From her sickbed she
heard the cranes cry
and flee, from the
dry autumn field.
She listened
to the golden oriole,
singing in the spring,
she knew of where they flew.
It was her willow
and nameless trees,
felled along
the avenues of her childhood,
they opened
and taught me how to be,
to sense the life of the land,
and its song.
© Daniel James Greenwood, 2011
Daniel Greenwood 
Beautiful, gentle poem.
Thank you Thomas