Sunshine’s not available on demand

The trees are waving, frantically stirred
By breezes rare in August in this land
The trees imply they’ve got news re the Word

The rain swirls  on the window till it’s blurred
Makes all the flowers outside look very bland
The trees are waving, frantically stirred

I feel sorry for my garden birds
Sunshine’s unavailable on demand
The trees imply they’ve got news re the Word

Should I attract the high trees  with regard?
But I am  not a god  nor demon banned
The trees are waving, frantically stirred

How can these trees  say what they have heard?
Their ancestors were used to make boats sound
The trees imply they’ve got news re the Word

Should we have sea breezes on demand?
Should we control the Universal Hand?
The trees are waving, frantically stirred
The trees gloat now; they’ve  got news re the Word