Talking to the Owl

I met a tree while walking alone
through the forest near my home
He gripped the ground with gnarled feet
in ancient dirt both sharp and sweet
His trunk was wrapped with a twisting vine
That scaled his berth and limbs entwined
Then spilled like garlands to earth again
as they whispered with breath and wind
I sat and listened to hear some sense
Some wise and ancient boreal chant
It flowed like water from his tip
And over leaves that were his lips
So I leaned in close to hear him speak
And pressed his trunk against my cheek
Yet no noun or verb could I unfold
I had no ear for a tongue so old
My own mouth had no words to say
So I held my silence and walked away