Endlessly Alive

On a fog-wrapped hillside

an ancient tree stands rooted in the hush,

its branches drifting into cloud

like thoughts that never needed words.

No past tugs at its bark,

no future leans toward its leaves—

only the vastness of being,

quiet and unconcerned.

Mist threads through its limbs,

a slow dance of nothing in particular,

softening age into presence.

Here, the world forgets to hurry.

Here, the tree forgets to be anything

but itself—

whole, weathered,

and endlessly alive

in the silence of the hill.