The People of the Trees

A long, long time ago After the cities came, Came a lady to the woods. In the woods, I gasped. No one went outdoors. Outdoors were against the rules, but here was she. She was old, could barely walk but… But, she bided me to halt. Halting, a gleam twinkling in her eyes. Eying the surroundings to make sure no one was near, Near she drew and looked me in the eye. “I am growing old,” she whispered, “but… But, still have I to tell the tale, The tale of a young girl your age. Of your age, Who listened. Who listened to the trees.” To the trees she looked and spread her arms, Arm pointing to the green trees grown old. “The old children die, and the new ones come. Coming, They do not see. See, The trees are alive and need someone to listen. So listen, listen very close. Close to the next time you escape the concrete walls, Walls behind, come to this place. Placed here are the trees, they are here, and they will aid. Aid you to leave. Leaving confinement, to them you can flee. Fled, concealed in their midst. In their midst we do belong. Belong we not in that place. Placed maze of brickwork and boundaries. Boundaries of worry and haste.” Hastily I said, “yes. I will, I will.” That place is not. Not warm, inviting. There is no time. Time to dance and play. No instant. No instant to just listen for a moment.” Momentarily, the woman cast a loving smile and pointed. Pointed to a tree. To the tree I turned to look. The tree was smiling. Smiling at me.