Their lives are longer, slower than ours.
They drink more deeply, slowly,
are warmed, do not shiver at dusk.
The heart unwiding makes a small noise.
Who would hear it?
Yet the trees attend,
perhaps to us, perhaps to nothing.
Fragrance maybe, not of
flowering, but leaves and bark.
Trees. Dusk. Hand-coloured photographs
of the world before we were born.
Not sweet, but as water is,
sweet to a mouth long closed on itself.
Befriend them.
"Trees" by Roo Borson
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