On the shore of a timeless river, we stepped into a sepia world.
I wasn't eager to enter -- the light was so much easier to love.
Beyond the threshold, the cypresses could work their magic.
The mosses swayed while the waterlines held steady.
Everything hushed.
Colors softened into the muted shades of a hand-tinted postcard.
Colors softened into the muted shades of a hand-tinted postcard.
We touched bark as smooth and soothing as a worry stone,
needles as delicate as a memory cherished for a lifetime.
Outside, the light went on without us.
In a thousand years, when we have long been dust,
will these trees remember our human touch?
will these trees remember our human touch?
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