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”