If trees could talk,
we’d hear them in the whispers of leaves
that quiver like voices under a night sky,
their secrets murmuring on the wind.
We’d feel their slow, patient cadence
drift through the earth, the deep roots
reaching into histories buried and forgotten,
holding stories we pass each day without seeing.

They live quiet lives, these trees,
appearing simple, still—
but have you seen their scars?
The lightning marks that sear trunks,
the broken branches mended by time,
the rings hidden within, each a silent count
of storms endured, winters survived.
If trees could talk, would they tell us
how pain has a way of marking everything
it touches, even as it strengthens?

We think them still and sturdy,
but they are travelers too,
their leaves journeying with each season,
falling, scattering, vanishing—
only to return again, green and new,
a cycle of loss they know well,
as natural as breathing.
How much are we like them,
stuck in the ebb and flow,
shedding parts of ourselves we thought
we needed only to be reborn, different,
yet somehow the same?

They suffer in silence,
yet they stand, as we do—
anchored against tempests and drought,
bearing what they cannot change.
They lean into the light, stretch toward the sun,
like we reach for hope, for something to hold onto
when the ground feels unstable.
They grow slow, but they grow,
never rushing the process,
just letting time work its quiet magic
through bark and branches,
through every fiber that knows
some things only time can heal.

And like us, they’re often unseen,
overlooked in the noise of our days,
background to lives rushing past.
But if you stopped—just for a moment—
and felt the rough texture of bark,
listened to the rustle of leaves,
could you hear yourself in them?
The unspoken resilience, the quiet patience,
the scars that mark you as much as they mend?

People are like trees,
both good and bad,
rooted yet reaching, scarred yet standing.
They bear witness to our stories,
their silent presence reminding us
we are not alone in our struggles,
nor are we separate from the world
we so often take for granted.

So when you walk by,
hear them if you can—
the hidden language of trees,
the way they suffer, heal, and grow,
the way they endure in shadows and sun,
showing us, wordlessly,
what it means to live,
to be both frail and unbreakable,
to belong to something larger,
even when no one notices.

And maybe,
in their silence,
you’ll find a voice
of your own.