Now the Widow Wyile is a friendly
hermit happily living
in the company of trees
their branches reaching out
to each other
their roots entangled
with deliberation
they form a southern semi-circle
year-round sentinels
with seasonal proclivities
they watch her move
among them
draw in her simple toning songs
in every weather
stand dancing with her
in the spirit of sisterhood
she who unlike them
does not grow yearly
taller and imperceptibly wider
wears more when they wear less
and though she is a student
of stillness
moves far too much
to ever grow moss
house lichen