A Man and a Tree V

The tree was me. I was the tree.

Not as a metaphor, but as recognition. Roots where my thoughts had been. Branches where my gestures had reached outward. Weight transformed into steadiness; movement transformed into patience. What I had carried across the field was never meant to be discarded, only grounded. As Heraclitus suggested, “No man ever steps in the same river twice,” yet here I stood, unchanged and entirely new. The dream closed not with an ending, but with belonging.