A sapling
sits
in stream-fed
soil.
It takes
its time growing,
overshadowed
by her sisters
thirty years
ahead.
A young birch
watches the forst
transform
through spring
to winter
without
a whisper.
She endures frost,
summer heat,
dripping sap
from insect-inflicted
wounds,
stripes of survival.
A hundred years on,
the forest shrinks
to a grove,
but the birch
still stands,
observing.
No comments:
Post a Comment