Considering how long it must have taken for the one of them to embrace the other,
for the one to choose to fall into those strong pine arms,
for the pine to accept the white bark of the birch as closest to its own,
considering how long their roots were in communion before their branches ever touched,
considering the seasons and the rise and fall of moon and sun,
considering the crows that call them “home” with no distinction between the white and brown skin, needles and leaves,
considering the decision was made long before the act of touching was finally reality,
I suppose I can be more patient.