In tranquility they stand, antiquated and astute,
Murmuring mysteries underneath rambling skies.
Their foundations interweave, an organization inconspicuous,
Talking peacefully where hearts have been.
Leaves stir delicately, a delicate hold back,
Recounting daylight, of delight, of downpour.
Each ring in their trunk holds a story of the years,
Of tempests endured courageously, of chuckling and tears.
A safe house for drifters, a permanent place to stay preposterous,
They pay attention to stories without requiring words.
In the dance of the branches, an orchestra plays,
The language of trees in their sensitive influence.
They take the stand concerning seasons, the pattern of life,
Through spring’s delicate blossoms to winter’s cool struggle.
In their shade, we track down comfort, a second to relax,
In their presence, the weights of life begin to leave.
So stop and reflect in their peaceful hug,
Let their insight and tolerance assist you with tracking down elegance.
For in the language of trees, we find our own,
An update that peacefully, we are rarely alone.
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