A lone tree rests upon the hill
as the fog begins to thin,
its outline soft against the waking sky.
It does not call for company,
nor wait for birds
to stitch the morning with song.
Roots hold quietly to the earth,
branches open to whatever light arrives.
Flowers spill from its limbs
without announcement—
petals drifting where they will.
It seeks nothing.
It refuses nothing.
What comes, comes.
What does not, does not.
In the clearing air
the tree simply stands—
complete in its solitude,
ready for wind or stillness,
bloom or fall,
content in the simple truth
of being here.
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