The Quiet Discourse of Woods

Stepping into vibrant woods, the leaves whispered forgotten stories.
Paths unwound like old tapes, recording, playing back, forever.
"From the meadow, we walked," she murmured, footsteps matched the echo.
A loop, a loop, a loop. Always into the trees.

Vibrant, vibrant, vibrant. The word dulled, yet brightened, twisted.
Sunlight flickered, a projector beam showing the past's script.
"Do you remember," he asked, "the colors before the rain?"
Silence held him, or perhaps the woods did, embracing.

The path forked, choices made, and remade, endlessly.
"This way," she said, though they'd been here before—maybe not.
The woods knew, a living archive of footsteps and dreams.
A chill, a hum, the air thick with memories unclaimed.

Perhaps tomorrow, when the sun turns the leaves to liquid gold,
they'll find a way out, or deeper in, where stories never end.
Echoes of the forest
Looping reeds