Reading under the pine trees

Old pines and spruces had seen a share of things in life - mostly seasons changing; people, young and old, coming and going; some kisses, some quarrels; dogs chasing squirrels. But never before had the trees hosted books, and writers, and readers. For hours they watched and listened to the words spinning poetry webs; books promising wormholes to the past, present, future and make-believe; writers daring to lift the layers of pages to reveal who they are; and sounds of reading punctuated with anticipating pauses.
The trees wished to reach their branches down to take hold of the treasures, to save stories for tomorrow, to add their voices to the mix. People left, took their books and poems and stories. The green hosts were left with memories. And a hope that next year the books, and readers and writers will return.