tonight,
the old oak
does not dream
of spring.
it does not worry
about the birds
that will one day
return to its branches.
deep beneath the earth,
where no one applauds,
the roots
have gathered.
every hidden thread
leans toward
one wounded place.
“here,”
they whisper.
”send the water here.”
”send the strength here.”
”wrap this place
until it remembers
it belongs
to the tree.”
the trunk
stands silent.
the branches
rest without dancing.
even the leaves
grow still,
trusting
what they cannot see.
healing
is not the work
of the branches.
it is the devotion
of the roots.
so tonight,
let the world
grow quiet.
let medicine
find its river.
let those who love you
bring water,
pillows,
and gentle hands.
the oak
asks nothing
of itself
except
to remain rooted
while life
does the patient work
of becoming whole.
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