Standing tall on the edge of tomorrow, 
roundly facing it, the same as yesterday, 
spring sings the lullabies of leaves, 
each one music the sky knows 
in bursts of blue and considerations of grey, 
the joisting of comely clouds.

Recitations of pines 
are ready at hand, 
are invitations to take this magic 
and sway in the breeze.

Words on the tongues of trees 
are etched in its rings 
as old as the world is 
in its rightness. We learn 
our place standing like cypress, 
up to our knees in water.

We learn roundness 
even in our lumbering, 
how the future and the past 
are a history we revere 
as we stand resilient to storms 
the rootedness 
of our lives teaching us 
what the pine knows: 
that being bent is not the same 
as being broken.