“I can’t.” How could he explain it in a way Leslie would understand, how he yearned to reach out and capture the quivering life about him and how when he tried, it slipped past his fingertips, leaving a dry fossil upon the page? “I just can’t get the poetry of the trees,” he said. She nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You will someday.” He believed her because there in the shadowy light of the stronghold everything seemed possible.
