The whispering pines carry secrets
in windswept sighs.
Leaves clasped in autumn’s grip
decoded a language of trunks.
A celebration of tangled roots
in the inhaled silence of dawn.
Blades of grass shifted in accordance with the constellation of soft spoken words.
Veins of sap determined their directions
etched catchphrases hidden in growth rings.
Time’s embrace turned bark into parchment,
fragile messages scribbled in sunlight.
The elder oak nodded at rhymes
spoken by the budding saplings.
Echoes remain wherever roots entwine
beneath quiet realms, stories interwoven.