the leaves converse in tongue not meant for feet to follow
lost amidst the murmurs that trickle through bark grooves
the veins pulse old tales of waters crossed before this hour
a signal, an echo, a tilt upon forgotten axis.
fold inwards like the moon caught unraveling a dream, somewhere in the mist,
charcoal letters trace night’s breath - harsh poetry gripped by knowing hands
is it truth if it dances when caught in dismay?
words become rivers slipping beneath root and moss,
echo peculiar, crawling like a query tied murky to earthen bead, disrupting silence.
resonance around edges frail as dew spills in gentle arrive,
like a drum now abandoned, hidden keys left in hands of shadows.
the call that never resonates without echo hence why whispers rest with tree trunks
caught between present and passage of story embraced by crescent light.