Whispers of the Decaying Canopy

Among the gentle whorrling of autumn’s breath, leaves fold into whispers—a phantom vibration in the marrow of memory. The flakes of once-vibrant greens decay into whispers, leaving behind murmurs of summers seen but not captured.

Imagine a limb that once reached for sunlight now lost to time and fate. There, suspended in mid-air, you can still feel the warmth of its presence, as if the sun bestowed kindness upon something that no longer exists. A symphony of rustling hearts stir within the dry winds.

Pluck the echoes from the air, listen: the scent of damp earth, the imprint of shadow against silken bark. These leaves know secrets, stitched into their crumbling ribs. Each flutter connects the void, traverses time like veins in a long-forgotten history.

Listen, as the petals abandon their hue, carried by the hands of autumn toward oblivion lets you feel the ache of your phantom presence—a constant reminder, like snow on the cusp of possible.