Beneath the canopy of silence,
where roots kiss the forgotten soil,
whispers entwine, a spiraling code.
Winds weave letters among branches,
each leaf a syllable in the song of the bark.
Imagine the elders—noble oaks,
holding court with timid ferns
as moonlight scribes ephemeral parables
onto the skin of sleeping linchpins.
Decode the syllables spun
by the wind's waltz through
canopy pennants dancing in dawns past.
A cipher entwined in rings of time,
where each loop tells tales of seasons.
Have you heard them? The parables
encrypted in rustling whispers,
dream spinners found in the shade
of old-growth memories?