The girl’s hand is already carved in questions

and so she believes the same of the tree.

There is a particular green of old trees who know dry thoughts even as the world is soaked. The trees swallow light, one sigh of it at a time, the feathers of the sun inhaled every day. The girl does not know how sweet this is: the song of old growth. The girl’s palm is already carved in questions and so she believes the same of the tree’s rough bark, t…