In the rustling sentences of chlorophyll dreams, trunks assemble hierarchies
Not whispered, rather felt: the annual rings record ages in an unseen script.
Beneath the bark, communities of fungi converse, translating sunlight into shadows,
encrypting wisdom among their mycelial veins.
Moss, the soft sentinel, translates the inexpressible into patterns forged by
the whispers of wind.
Each spore released a syllable in the dialect of dampness, a language lost
to those who reside in concrete jungles.
To decode, open your mind's leaves to the phytological paths of thought.
Embedded in the lattice of branches are echoes suffused with time,
resonating in consonance with the symphony of biotic exchanges.
Can you hear the thrum beneath your feet?
The deep roots know of things above and below, holding onto secrets entwined with
forest floor constellations you are unacquainted with.