Keeper of rings inside rings,
Clock-maker of leaf-light,
Archivist of every breath that ever brushed bark:

Hear the scratch of a moss-stained claw.
It is Skittles, smallest of petitioners,
who counts time in grubs and promises.
With a teaspoon pilfered from the silver of forgotten mothers
he stirs the soil at your roots and says:

“Let the tall ones remember.”

Remember the boy named Trevenen,
whose tears once watered these giants.
Remember the sisters whose names are songs
Cinnamon, her friends, and Rain-Eyes
and keep their laughter ink-fresh in the cambium.

Grant to Skittles the courage of fungus,
the stealth of shadow-rings,
the patience of sap that refuses to hurry.

And when axes march with maps of efficiency,
settle your ancient hush upon the blades;
bend seconds into centuries
until the men of bright orange forget why they came.

So may the sequoias stand unnumbered,
their stories untidy but alive;
so may the goblin’s scars learn the shape of healing;
so may time itself turn its face toward mercy –
for a millennium,
for a moment,
for now.

By spoon, by bell, by mirror, by button, let it be so.