An undergrowth entwined with untold tales,

a storybook bound tightly to twisted branches that arch above the soil and mingle with the clouds.

A haven secluded and untouched,

smiling wistfully, waiting to speak.

 

Branches crack under my feet, the subtle lighting of the bush.

Birds chirping and cicadas buzzing, surrounded by the wind brushing against the leaves.

Mangled branches brittle to the touch from where glassy leaves sprout,

lines like scars running through them - the leaves' fingerprints.

 

The mass gives way to a gate glowing darkly, for it knows secrets that we could never.

A door unlocked but guarded with age.

Tread carefully but do not be afraid, for the leaves watch over you.

 

Every step I take, I reach over to your figure - the pulpy mud grabs onto the soles of my shoes.

Your jagged branches trace my fingertips.

I stroke the newly sprung, bright, green leaves, softly.

I exhale, knowing that I was once a child too. 

 

Twisting branches that tell a story.

Birds sing and insects chirp, beckoning us closer.

The soft, warm wind gently brushes against my face,

and I am wrapped in the breeze like the arms of a mother.

My eyes close gently and I let the bushes embrace me.

I succumb to their tales.