In the Quiet of the Morning

I am grounded in the earth like a tree, embodied in the woodland. Like many, my bark is engrained with your stories. I grow slowly but strong as I collect history. I stand alone but I am not lonely. I’m never too far away from the others and our branches touch and oscillate to and fro. I am the canopy of protection as I sway in the breeze. A narrative exchange in the wind, like quiet whispers of a child. A sacred ritual to release the deep impressions on my torso.