Araucaria—
an evergreen geometry,
branches lifted in perfect balance,
as if measured by the patience of time.
Its needles soften into leaf,
a muted green,
neither sharp nor yielding,
only calm.
The bark is rough—
ancient stone translated into skin,
prickling the palm
with memory.
When the wind moves through it,
the sound is not noise
but whisper—
a language learned from forests.
The air around it carries pine
and damp earth,
and rain, resting briefly on its leaves,
tastes like first breath after thirst.
This tree does not merely stand—
it composes.
Branches rise and fall
like a quiet symphony.
A living sculpture,
strength held without force,
roots growing old
so the world above may endure.
DoubleSpeak 