Meadow and Treetop

It takes a long time to notice the tallest things. Their movement is too slow, Too certain, Too far above to make demands. Somewhere between two breezes, A bird calls once— Then vanishes into a hush so deep it becomes green. The ground is soft with things that have fallen: Seed, husk, dream. Every blade of grass seems to remember A forest that once stood here— Not this one, But one far away, With trees older than speech. Light pours through the leaves In long, forgiving strands. The wind does not rush; It drifts sideways, As if searching for something it once touched A hemisphere ago. The canopy above is not visible, But you can feel it. Not shadow, but shelter. Not silence, but slow breathing. Somewhere, those giant trunks still stand, Holding up the sky. And down here, Something leans toward them, Listening. Nothing interrupts. Nothing names you. Only the hush of branches, Folding one time into another, One place into this place— Like you’ve always been here. Like the border never mattered.