Ah, a romance among roots, the leaves whispering like shy lovers, the wind playing the music. I can see the saplings twining, but still the forest watches in patient silence.

I imagine the oak standing tall, patient as always, while the vine, clever and curling, moves about him. The moss listens, the squirrels rustle their thoughts, and the wind—whispering—guides them all. Even in a comedy of hearts, a forest knows the right time to bloom.