the stories I could tell

the stories I could tell
of dreams sweetly coursing through my veins
filled with life and sustenance;
of growth buried deeply within my cells
not a choice or a have to but a need, a calling, a purpose.

the stories I could tell
of years and years of human hands
caressing me in softness, hugging me in heartache, and
even cutting me open for the selfish desire of leaving their mark
as I if I am the signpost for lovers on a journey unknown;
of passers-by too busy to notice, too consumed to care
as my family members disappeared as a result of "progress."

the stories I could tell
of awe in witnessing a thousand sunsets
while coral and lavender light danced across my skin;
or mornings' sunrises warming my limbs
even as cold, wet snows fell delicately upon my leaves.

the stories I could tell
of birds' sweet symphonies or squirrels' chattering gossip
as they nestled into the safety and shelter of my arms;
of deer nudging my trunk with their soft noses
or small creatures tickling my toes with tiny legs
as they all found nourishment in my body.

the stories I could tell
of lonely years, of beaten paths,
of changing tides, of waning moons;
of life unlived, of laughter shared,
of tears unheard, of kisses stolen.

but you would have to stop
and sit
and listen
and imagine,
for my stories are there for the taking
if you have the time.

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