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Two trees stand close,
close enough to feel each other’s presence.

They speak
after the footsteps disappear.

When the green grows thick,
people slow down,
look for a moment,
then move on.

One tree says,
my leaves are gone.
The wind passes straight through me.
I feel exposed.
I feel bare.

The other tree replies,
being bare
is still a way of standing.
Still a way of existing.

The first tree says,
beauty was spring.
When light rested on us,
when clouds were drawn closer,
curious,
unafraid.

Beauty was rain
that felt like bathing,
like starting again.

Now
it only feels like waiting.

The other tree answers,
the clouds never stopped coming.
They only changed how they arrive.

Sometimes as rain.
Sometimes as snow.
Sometimes as quiet dew
that stays until morning.

They stayed longer than people did.

Whatever human eyes choose to see,
whatever they pass by,

the sky keeps watching.
Light keeps returning.

Sometimes softly.
Sometimes with thunder.

These are not mistakes.
They are seasons.

And like trees,
human lives move through fullness,
through loss,
through stillness.

So when no one stays,
when nothing looks like spring,

what might still be standing with you,
patient,
seen,
and waiting?