If I were a tree,

I would not grow in a straight line.

My roots would twist through rock and river,

finding the hidden waters,

feeding me in silence.

I would be a willow,

bowing low to the earth,

yet rising again with the wind,

my branches trailing stories

into every current that passed.

I would be an oak,

sturdy and unshaken,

offering shade to the weary,

a place where birds make songs,

where children carve names,

where lovers rest against my spine.

If I were a tree,

I would be both grace and grit—

a reminder that resilience

does not always roar;

sometimes it whispers,

sometimes it bends,

and still it grows.

And in every ring of my heartwood,

you would read the story of fire,

of storms survived,

of seasons where I nearly withered,

yet still,

I reached for the light.