Arms of oak reach me. Thoughtful palms. Twigs earned of fingers stare into my skin. Unavailing bark peeled away.  

Natures breath sways thoughts.  

No rustling.  

The whispers of my lilac eyes are heard.  

Growth, runs rings around us. Anchored firmly in the soil of your soul.   

Rock-hard wood tightly gripped. Caged unrest at the passage. Rooted in the still silence of your body. Basked in a climate of certainty.  

Before the onslaught of softness, wetness, sweltering red heat. Before everything.  

Gradual. Deliberate. Slippery elm. Excruciatingly unhurried. Inner earths brushed.

Persecuted stillness.  

Deafening groans disturb the rich forest. Before the rain.