About the tree at the top of the hill— {a poem}

As we walked towards it
a couple came into view,
friends or lovers or both,
nestled in against its sturdy spine.
What a fine place to talk
or let the relief of silence settle.

The hills beyond hardly mountains,
with just enough horizon
to suggest other lives, places,
possibilities.

What fills you with dread
and what brings delight instead?

I read somewhere that trees speak
to each other through a vast
network of roots we’ll never see.

Some mysteries we’re not privy to,
my love. That doesn’t mean
they’re not whispering to us,
sending nudges up from far beneath
this comfy spot, saying: Soon.
Get ready. Go.