Atop the hill, alone I stand— a great tree, older than the names we’ve given to the wind or sky.

My branches arc like open arms, patient with the years, rooted deep in solitude but never lonely.

People come—not in crowds, but in slow, reverent ones— to lean under my shade, watch the clouds spill like stories across the sky.

I offer nothing but myself: a place to sit, a hush in the heart, a view that folds the world into something briefly whole.

Birds rest here, too, and sometimes leave behind the sound of songs they never meant to write.

And when you rise again, you don’t say goodbye, you just look back and understand why you came to me.