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
