The Tree That Remembers

He stands

where the path forgot to go,

his roots tangled deep

in the hush of the earth.

His bark wears stories —

not carved,

but kept.

A wrinkle for every name

no longer spoken.

He’s seen swords drawn

beneath his limbs.

Vows whispered

in summer rain.

Letters burned

in winter winds.

Birds have come

and built their homes,

then flown,

and flown,

and flown again.

Children once played

in the hollow of his side.

Now moss plays there.

He does not move.

But he listens.

To rabbits breathing.

To storms pacing.

To lovers afraid to say too much.

To the dead,

who still visit,

in the shape of wind.

Some say

if you press your palm

against his bark

on a quiet day,

he might share a memory.

Not in words.

But in weight.

A pause.

A hush.

And the soft, slow sense

that something ancient

knows your name —

and does not judge

what you’ve become.