Wood wraps it’s way

Through the ground. I

Have read without

Fungi, trees don’t thrive.

The muck makes it

Possible to live

A canopy dream. Air

Shifting your body

To the rhythm of each

Passing cloud.

If I wrap my knuckles

Along its trunk, I can

Feel its skin, the rough

Whorl of time. The only

Sound, though, is me.