She picks all morning through the woods,
now and sometimes again
pausing, to hold a quiet,
reasonable trunk,
with the palm of
both hands,
to remember her need
of slowness.

Time relaxes somehow
in the company of trees,
and if the wind
doesn’t stir up trouble,
and a girl
doesn’t move, time
has been known to even
rest a while.

The old pines have no use
for minutes or weeks.
They’ve been rising so
very slowly,
while the sun slings
overhead, horizon
to horizon,
in heartbeats of day
and night, winter
and summer, waking
and sleeping.

The trees
just go on and on
like that, counting out
centuries
in the finest of rings.