"I would have loved the musty ways of this old earth the best. To unfurl, and gnarl as time peels itself away from seed to shoot to sequoia; a naive testament to the immemorial," the sapling said.

But who can tell it, that you stand on the feet of a cracking ancient smile, and you will never be a testament to anything, except that ten thousand years of the tightest fire will bring a cold furious perfection? And who can tell it, the next time you see the sun you will be a star?