Under a cyclical canopy,
they have a quiet confidence
in leading their kind.
Whether sitting or standing,
they can tread the leaves for a lifetime,
in thrashing storms, midnight silence and droning dusk.
Their own voices muted.
We can’t hear their music,
or their oration,
or their soliloquies,
judging them dead, or worse,
having not lived.
Who knows their songs but them?
-and God-
To whom even the rocks cry out
amid the falling trees.
and new seedlings.
Tantum ergo.
Taps and Ratamacues 
I like the ideas you expressed in this poem. I think you did a good job of taking something commonplace and showing us the wonder in it.
Thank you Brian. I’m glad you liked the poem. There is wonder in everything around us. Sometimes we are in too much of a hurry to see/hear it.