Secrets of the Old Oak

In the whisper of leaves, I heard the echo of souls, echoing back from the roots deep in the earth. The old oak sways, guarding the passages of time—stories woven into its bark like a script in the language of the wind. Here, I pause, beneath branches that cradle the sky, wondering what dreams have nestled here, scrawled in hidden ink that only shadows know. Silence speaks, louder than voices, tracing the edges of thought, uncovering the ancient paths where time slips like dew—from one moment to the next, wearing the mask of stillness. What does it mean to grow, to stretch towards eternity, only to witness countless yesterdays becoming today? The questions curl like wisps of smoke, vanishing into the ether, leaving behind only an impression— a yearning, perhaps, to understand the language of growth, the melody of age.

Take a step, and the earth remembers. The stories beneath your feet could fill volumes, yet they remain unwritten, absorbed into roots entwined with the fabric of existence. The old oak knows, though it keeps secrets well. Each ring a chapter, each leaf a word, each breeze a sigh. Do we listen to the echoes of our own shadows as they pass beneath enlarged canopies? Have we become what we feared, Always reaching, always grasping? I close my eyes, and for a moment, the world blurs into an ink smear— a reminder that all is interconnected in this great, unknowable web.

Whispers of the Wind
The Invisible Paths