The trees know my thoughts. They know my secrets and inward rants. They’ve felt the weight of trouble; and when it passes, they’ve known my laughter at the ridiculousness of it all. The trees know. Then they release my joy in the shaking and shimmy of their leaves. My space is filled with trees that whisper to me; even in seasons that make them bare their own brown bones.
They tell me to grow.
This Woman's Picnic 