The trees are women and as women
they wait and grow in patience,

hands lightly clasped, dressed in
ancient dress, forbearing, having

come here from the distant past—
bare of foot and without malice,

without pretense of speech I go
to them for comfort, to lay beneath

their solemn breath, their gentle
unsmiling goodness, to turn in my

ways, to feel their bare ankles and
know that living a life is a shared

experience not always spoken or
human

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