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 twisting leaves
the willow bows continuously
to it unseen weight
of damp and deep connections
My son, my sapling
sings with his arms
a wild thrum, a willful motion
revealing the rhythm
that dances within
An ancient art
of silent communication
a mystery to all
but those who know
that our roots are entwined
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