Branches of Thought

When I think of trees — no, not just trees, but their roots reach, stretching, grasping destiny — I breathe in nature's echo, a quiet roar. Leaves whisper secrets only stars remember. Conservation isn't a word, it's a heartbeat, a pulse in the soil and a sigh in the wind. Piecing together the universe, one belongs to the wilderness, just as the wilderness belongs to all breathing. With every branching neuron, a vine becoming part of the consciousness, shivers down the spine like old memories retold in rustling voices — the trees converse again. Are we whispers or echoes, derived from the same clime? The chimney's sigh, a reminder of the encroaching frost, yet within hearts, there simmers life, resisting, hoping. The forest keeps watching, keeps waiting...