In the stillness of the forest,
where light spills like honey
through the lattice of branches,
I listen closely,
for trees speak in whispers—
ancient dialogues etched in bark,
their words swirling in the breeze.
Each trunk a tome,
circles of history inscribed in knots,
holding stories of storms weathered,
of roots tangled in earth’s embrace,
where the heart of a seed beats
with the courage of generations past,
rebellious, yet ever humble.
The way their leaves quiver
in the language of longing,
a ballet of green and gold,
is a reminder that they too,
dance with the seasons—
some shedding burdens,
others reaching for skies
in fierce and fragile hope.
Underneath the canopy,
the air thickens with unspoken things,
conversations between branches,
the soft rustle of secrets
traveled on the sighs of the wind,
like the murmurs of women
carrying the weight of the world
in their laughter and tears.
I knelt at the roots,
felt the pulse of the earth,
the heartbeat of life woven in layers—
each inch of soil a chapter,
a promise of regeneration,
and I wondered
if we too, as women,
hold these living languages
within us,
our stories tattooed in skin,
our voices echoing through the ages.
In the quiet strength of the forest,
I see reflections of resilience,
in the gnarled branches, I trace paths
of survival and rebirth,
recognizing my own limbs reaching out,
sometimes yearning,
sometimes grounded,
stretched under a sky both stormy and blue.
For trees do not rush,
they breathe, they listen, they grow,
and in their patient unfolding,
I find lessons in grace,
each scar in their bark
a reminder that beauty thrives
even in the face of hardship.
So I return to the roots,
embracing the language of trees,
their words wrapping around my spirit,
inviting me to stand tall,
to sway with the winds of change,
to know that in our intertwined existence,
we—like them—
are both delicate and resolute,
carriers of timeless stories
waiting to unfurl
