Confessions of the Oak

Once whispered softly, I see your roots tugging at dreams—

“The woodpecker sings in rhythm with the ache of solitude.”
“Misunderstood bark, wearing coats of frost—who am I to judge?”
“Someday, the clouds will become ground, and we’re all swept away.”

The moth knows secrets in the night, velvet whispered strange habits of the elder trunk.

to dance with shadow, taste the breeze:

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