Beneath the wide-armed tree
stones rest in quiet patience,
cool against the breathing earth.
They do not speak of seasons,
though leaves fall upon them,
though roots curl gently around their edges.
Sunlight filters through branches,
touching stone and shadow alike—
no preference,
no claim.
Rain darkens their surfaces,
then dries without apology.
Moss arrives,
stays awhile,
moves on.
The tree grows upward.
The stones remain.
Neither envies the other.
Neither seeks to trade places.
In their shared stillness
there is no higher,
no lower—
only the simple truth
of resting where one is.
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