Trees.

He said that she was stagnant, no longer striving to grow. But he did not know that she had lived only under life's constant monsoon, its torrential pains spilling into the bark of her hungry baobab soul nurturing her flesh in the sparsity of an arid savannah. He, a fresh green shoot fed by watering cans and nestled in the sunlit palms of a forest, had no burden but to maintain a will to flourish. What would he know of Adansonia veins? Of the turgid-bellied tree who nested the weaver birds when she was full and still sheltered the naked shoulders of a man,
when she was hollow. His flimsy leafed stalk is still young, trembling precariously under the light breeze of disappointment. But her deciduous heart, accustomed to the loss of leaves in the dry season, was forever the robust sovereign within her. But how could he see that, a sequoia seedling, all he knew was his destiny to the redwood forests of California, where the gnarled branches of a Baobab tree,
would soon be left far behind in the shadow of his ascending crown.