In the whispering hollow, where silence holds sway,
your voice—a fragment, a vagrant melody—drifts.
Among unseen frequencies, it dances with harmonic ghosts,
weaving through the looms of twilight dusk.
The ground listens; soil etches imprints of sound
heard only by the shadows of trees,
their arms crossed in the frostbitten air,
hushed like secret confessions in icicle breath.
Do you remember the symphonic hums
that summon the stars to descend and embrace
the pool of forgotten echoes as kin?
Swaying syncopation in sylvan chords.
Her poetry resides in the acoustics
of crickets' night chorales and candle flickers.
Are there silent screams in this absorbing vastness,
or do they simply harmonize into the tree-lines?
Lend an ear to their nocturnal symphonies, at
journey.html or
listen as they pause at
branches.html.