Living among trees, we can only be
So proud, so much 'in control'
Of things, so sure of what
We're sure, so filled
With self regard.

No breeze, heavy and hot, moves
At the foot of the tulip tree,
Yet high, high overhead,
Tips of branches turn,
Leaves lift.

It is the passage of time, of air
We hear, rustle and shush
Of leaves, this rush
Of motion, of flow,
Of letting go.

But we hold on tight, arms embrace
The rooted trunk, smooth bark,
Just as we hold each other
Those moments when we
Touch, then part.