The old trees don’t talk much anymore

They just are

Watch towers

Watching the rapid progression of decades and

The decay of stones

Stalwart totems

Faces stacked with furrowed brows

Mostly projecting distain on us

But sometimes

In the cool of the forest

Amid the tallest of evergreens and the thickest of moss

A weary old oak might whisper

“I like you. Yes.

I did think better of you once

Long ago…”

“Before you lowered the sky and drank all of the rivers and left us

With all of your cares

Alone”