Don’t tell the sapling.
The sapling cannot know.
We may whisper it in the dead of night when the poor thing sleeps. We may pass it on in hushed breaths in the loud life of daybreak. We may write it in the dents and divots of the dirt hidden in the dark of a protective shadow. But we must not, not at all, under any whisking cloud or wavering sun ray, let the sapling know.
The rest of the forest can know. That’s fine. They will be okay. They probably know already, anyhow. The trees shake their limbs, bustling with the news. The bees hum their secret tune in a buzzing mystery to the sapling. You wouldn’t even hear the crickets with the way the others are alive with what they know. Everyone knows, except the sapling.
The sapling cannot know.
The words have moved mountains, scared the sun off of her horizon, and flattened the seas in quiet silence of what’s to follow. The knowledge has planted new stars in the sky, shifted long-known constellations, and set the lights in a frenzy. The secret has painted a rabid growth of green across the desolate lands, all-consuming and alive. A storm is rumbling, and almost everyone is electrified. Almost everyone.
The sapling cannot know.
If the sapling knew—oh, but the sapling cannot know. But. But, if it did. No, it really cannot. Because if, if it did, even I don’t know.
So, the forest goes on belting a song so foreign to the poor little tree that no matter the overwhelming volume of all of the cacophony and sudden interspersed pockets of utter silence, the sapling knew nothing of what really was happening.
The rumblings of the news itself became a flood. The thundering melodies twisted together in a clouding sweep. The mounting wave grew and grew, passing by the mountains, the sea, the deserts, and the earth in its entirety, making its way through the edge of the forest. The waters churned closer and closer. They stopped just behind the sapling, barred by the protective branches of the tall weeping willows.
The sapling cannot know.
The storm fought and kicked at the strong barrier, reaching its hand closer and closer to the sapling. The trees dug their roots deep and refused to yield. And then, a drop flung towards the sapling and landed on its shoulder.
The sapling cannot know.
The sapling shuddered. It turned slowly to face it all—all that the sapling could not know. But all that was there was a clear blue sky. The trees weren’t ever fighting a terrible force. There was never even a terrible force. There wasn’t ever anything that the forest buzzed about, became alive with. But that was what the sapling thought it knew.
