The call of the Thinking Tree

Just another tree, normal eyes may see.

A tree I am, but just a tree I cannot be.

For beneath my shade thoughts run free.

Rested upon my roots, that run so deep.

An artist heart I shall reap.

For every artist has their way, only they can engage.

With fresh words to fill thy page.

With covered ears, for some music is the way.

Not for all, others find their special place.

Hear I wait to meet my artist face to face.

A sacred place I am, one lies for you all.

When words don’t come, listen for my call.

When minds are silent, my branches speak.

To only hands that write, oh so neat.

As I think, I know my artist is of seek.

Our minds connect and enter twine

The painter’s paint designs my sight.

And the writers pen records my lines.

Together crafted, my stories told in due time.

As I await the artist, I shall call mine.

A thinking spot awaits all in need.

I see you; can you see me?

Our stories combine oh what they’ll be!

If in need of space where thoughts run free.

Rest beneath the shade of a thinking tree.

Devoted craft, with fruit to bare.

With artsy hearts, I only share.

Rest beneath my branches if you dare.

When the page stares back in blanked glare.

Your thinking tree is always there.