Silent Between The Trees

In the hollow of the oak,
that whispered secrets only moss understands, 
I find the earth breathing slow beneath the sky, 

The leaves, each a life lived and lost. 
They fall, not like moments, but
quiet reckonings.

A river does not rush but 
wears the stone with patience. 
Tracing forgotten paths, knowing it has forever. 

At night, the sky does not glitter, 
and beneath it, seeds split the soil.

In this stillness, between 
the murmurs of trees, I wonder if we are not the same, 
carving our existence into time
with fragile hands.

We seek meaning in stars, but it is here, 
in the soil, in the breath between
what we leave and what we become. 
Not in the vastness above, but in the smallness 
of life’s humble unfolding.