Listen closely. The trees hold tales, woven tightly within bark-etched chronicles, beneath peeling layers of summer sun sursor, waiting for winter silence to amplify their truths.
Each leaf a word, each whisper a phrase in a dialect of shadows and light. Remember the damp day, when the rain wept softly, pulling intimate words from your evergreen neighbors?
Parallel roots entwined — secrets exchanged in whispers brought to life by wind's waltz — refracting through prisms only decipherable by ear then heart.
They count yearly rings, the patience of undisturbed life. This patience, foreign to our hurried script, savored in sap's slow rise. Each interval a testament to time’s invisible caress.