My son abides in time with trees

slowly, perhaps seasonally

stretching to grasp for light

patient with his swaying trunk

sluggish fingers

he is unhurried strength

With the rustling sigh

of thousands of twisting leaves

the willow bows continuously

reflecting its unseen weight

in deep and damp

living connections

My son, my sapling

sings with his arms

the thrum of wild, yet willful, motion

revealing the rhythm

that dances within him

practicing this ancient art

of quiet communication

a mystery to all

but those who know

that our roots are entwined

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