Rain falls.
A Flower blooms.
And the ground eventually goes cold.
But never my heart.
The seasons turn here.
But I remain a witness unmoved
In the land of no-speaking.
I detect the sun and shade
And the gleam of far-off stars
But I do not reach in futility.
I plant my feet firmly and knowingly
In the land of no-speaking.
Mother Nature can live
And breathe
And die again.
But I am not her rhythm.
I am the Tree who knows purpose
And when Mother whispers to me
It is the sound of my voice I draw near.
I do not bend to her.
I simply trust the depth of my roots.
And grow up.
