The trees are dark, sinister, misunderstood.

The trees grow.

They grow higher, they grow taller, they grow stronger.

They grow too high, tall, strong for themselves.

They do not want to grow.

They grow.

The limbs reach.

They reach for each other; they reach for anything, anyone to hold on to.

The limbs fear.

They fear that if they do not reach, if they do not hold on, they will lose themselves.

The leaves long.

They long for light, for the sun.

At night, they shiver in cold yearning.

The blossoms ache.

They ache for beauty, the beauty of the unknown.

They ache for the impossible potency of the unfelt, the undiscovered.

The yet unfound.

The bark whispers.

It whispers a story, a story of peace, of hope, of what once existed.

It whispers to anyone who can hear it, anyone who will listen.

The roots stretch.

They stretch and discover.

They discover what could be.

They discover what could be, if everyone would stop rushing, expecting, managing.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped speaking, and started listening.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped yelling, and started whispering.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped existing, and started living.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped over-thinking, and started wondering, dreaming.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped facilitating, directing, dictating, and started changing.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped fighting, and started uniting.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped making, and started creating.

They discover what could be if everyone stopped proving, and started believing.

The trees grow.