Not every tree was born to be heavy with fruit,
Some were shaped by the sun to stand still and stay quiet.
Their branches stretch wide, not to offer a harvest,
But to soften the sky when the day grows too violent.
There are trees that never feed mouths with sweetness,
Yet they save weary backs from the burning noon.
They do not ask why they bloom without bounty,
They simply exist—and that is their tune.
A traveler once cursed a silent old tree,
“No figs, no apples, no gift for my hand.”
But the sun was merciless, unforgiving and cruel,
Until the tree bent light and offered him land.
He sat in its shadow, angry, defeated,
Sweat tracing prayers down the bridge of his nose.
And in that quiet, he finally listened
To a kindness that never announced, “Here, I chose.”
Some people are forests of quiet relief,
Never applauded, never praised aloud.
They are there when the world feels too sharp, too loud,
They do not shine—but they dim the crowd.
They do not feed you dreams wrapped in gold,
They do not fix you or make you whole.
But they sit with you when your heart feels thin,
And remind you you’re human, not broken, not old.
We praise the orchard, the harvest, the yield,
We clap for the fruit that is counted and sold.
Yet overlook the ones who steady our breath
When life’s heat is too heavy to hold.
So if you are a tree with empty hands,
Roots deep but branches bare,
Know this—shade is a sacred offering,
And comfort is a form of care.
Not every life must glitter or feed the world loudly,
Some are meant to stay and be still.
And in a burning, exhausted generation,
Shade might be the greatest skill.
