There’s a conversation among trees you only hear when they share their silence when you enter the woods slowly and softly and stop long enough for them to forget you’re there
when you enter, patiently, and let yourself root in among them then, subtly, their voices rise, their language revealed in the soft groans of the ancient ones, the cracks and creaks of the dry branches of younger ones, the snapping of dead ones, the wind blowing through their leaves sending some whirligigging to the ground, strips of shredded bark falling through the understory and landing lightly below beneath it all, clandestinely, they whisper to each other through tiny tendrils shallow in the soil, seeking connections, like lovers’ fingers finding and entangling, sharing secrets and sensing each other's needs all we see are the stands of trees, like soldiers assembled solemnly, swaying in unison, old and young alike, sharing time and space with far more grace than we know how, sharing their secret language that we can only hear when we're silent among them.
Trees in poems! Like a forest.
I loved this. The theme within it and the characters you create here. This is masterful.
You and George are a powerful combo Rich. And this one was particularly inspiring for me. Beautifully done!