The world is too busy for you. So you look for that which lives in stillness. You camouflage and stay amongst it. Even the trees forgot you are there. Suddenly a letter arrives, and the bookshelf calls, and the familiar face invites. You attempt to move but you have to say: later. Looking down you noticed your feet are now roots. I'll reply, I'll read, I'll visit - once I've grown. It's almost done. But not quite.
