The do not speak,
but they answer.

When the wind comes,
they lean,not to fall,
but to listen.

Each branch,
a question in the air,
each leaf,
a whisper of becoming.

They have stood here
longer than our memories,
and still,
they move,
never breaking,
only bending.

There is grace
in their sway,
a silent agreement
with all that changes.