We often speak in whispers, in thoughts, in first breaths; these soliloquies have a quality of an ongoing conversation. Sometimes I trace it’s embossed roots, and the humble weeds tie moist anklets round my feet. And if you look closely, it’s tiny leaves seem to be broadcasting codes- memories- they say trees do have them. Maybe it has memories of me- transmitted over light years- over galaxies. It’s first blush bleeds my solitude in the misty sky, and in it’s penumbra- a respite, an escape- from a world, unnerved by tranquillity, I am, I always want to be.