Once, I heard the trees whisper secrets not meant for ears.
Fleeting images of a past unmade, in the chiaroscuro of
forgotten laughter and weeping silence.
"Memory has the taste of salt," she said, "and echoes of laughter
entwined with shadows that dance in the moonlight."
Have you ever seen a thought
float like a leaf in autumn's grasp, drifting
within the orb of time's endless march?
Clenched fists open but never grasp,
the lantern casts its glow on paths unwalked,
and yet we tread on, barefoot and laughing,
through midnight's tapestry of star-speckled truth.