In the dimness of self-aware shadows, a seedling listens. Its roots are whispers, its leaves thoughts not spoken.
Cosine echoes bounce off unseen walls, where every flicker of green is a memory not yet born.
The dance of atomic particles, sleeping under the soil, awakes when the moon dreams.
A question ripens like dew - what does it mean to grow, if observing and being observed are one and the same?
See through the canopy. Not all who wander can know; yet all must wonder, in silence, amongst the clay and cosmos.
Perhaps another reality awaits in the murmurs, or hidden in plain sight among the rituals of the forgotten garden.
It is said the ancient branches whispered the secrets of what lies between known and yet to be.