Beneath the Old Tree

I sit beneath a trembling tree,
Its golden leaves are like a memory
Fall one by one, in whispered grace,
As autumn paints the world’s old face.

Its branches stretch like tired hands,
Marking time in crooked spans,
And every breeze that passes through
Seems to murmur something true.

The bark is rough, like aged skin,
Layered deep with where it’s been—
A thousand storms, a hundred springs,
And still it stands, remembering.

I trace its roots that twist and dive,
The veins of Earth that keep it alive,
And wonder what it’s rooted in—
The soil? The past? The breath within?

Once, I passed it by with haste,
A blur beside the roadside waste.
Now I stop. And I remain,
While the golden light begins to wane.

It doesn’t speak, it doesn’t move,
But still it teaches, still it proves—
That time is slow, and change is sure,
And quiet things can still endure.