a couple of trees fill their lungs

 sigh, standing in the park.

one grows toward the sun,

the other one likes the dark.

these leaves used to be so young

for half a hundred years they've hung

yellowed blades fall off their tongues

waving farewells to the bark

years and seasons lost and won,
merely days, but the best one:
when deep roots underground first touched;
warmer nights in winter's dark.