I have not stood upon earth half as long as this aged tree. Has it any wisdom, then, to lend me? As questions find form, I suspend them unuttered in the hush of twilight.
Sensing my need, the old cottonwood speaks:
Child, you are built to withstand the storm, whether flood or drought, hail or heat, tempest or lightning strike, blizzard or blight.
Youth fades, illusions wither and fall away. But what is essential remains.
When at last you stand in simplicity, in stillness, empty arms upraised, you, too, can embrace the infinite.