I find my peace and inspiration among the trees. My favorite days are those when the wood is alive with movement; dancing with the wind. THE WIND. By Emily Dickinson

Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,
I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,
As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.
It Is the Wind in the Trees

By David Michael Jackson

It is the wind in the trees which
is only seen by the effect
and yet we know the wind is there
It is the breeze which rustles the leaves that
gives me hope.
It is that I cannot see it
and yet I know it is there that
gives me hope
It is the vastness of space itself
and infinity itself that
gives me hope, as I
hold this finite brush
in my temporary hand and I make this finite stroke with
this temporary
paint and the wind
is in the trees
giving hope