Every tree has its time;
Every tree, with its every root, has its rings,
Treasures kept in the stories they tell,
History written on its paper leaves.
Kind branches reach around me,
Breathing my breath,
Kissing my lungs from within,
With food for fire;
Its greenery grows,
Seconds gathering layers,
Becoming minutes,
And months, and eons;
Twigs become branches,
Become trunks.
The tree is bending slowly over the ages,
To the will of the winds, so swift and passing;
The roots are weaving through the soil,
Searching for moisture beneath the earth,
Digging deep past the soft sand to the stone below,
Laying its blankets on the bedrock.
It makes no sound,
But breathes nonetheless;
Children climb its branches,
Overwhelmed by the mystery,
That something so big,
Came from something so small,
That something so deep could reach so tall;
With hands in the homes of the bird and the worm,
They are the stitches holding the earth and sky.
