In the whispering tongues of ancient bark, I find the lost verses of now. Roots delve deeper, secrets encrypted in cellulose tapestry. A stream, a flow, the language of chlorophyll dreams. No spoken grammar, only the syntax of seasons.

The canopy listens as I write, each word a fallen leaf, each sentence a branch reaching towards uncharted skies. Through this ciphered forest, I wander, seeking the moss-covered truths.

Moss grows slow, deliberate, a code unraveled by time. To those who understand, the alphabet of shadows offers its wisdom. Decode the alignments, the oscillating nodes of thought.