A Hidden Symphony.

Poems.

A Hidden Symphony.

In the quiet hum of the forest,

where shadows weave their secrets,

a world of soft, silent forms arise—

fungi, the forest's whispered breath.

Among the moss and fallen leaves,

they bloom, humble architects of life.

Cap and stem, a hidden symphony,

shaping soil from decay and death.

Oh, gentle caretakers of the woods,

with patience, you mend and renew.

In your quiet, persistent way,

you teach us the beauty of becoming.

No need for sunlight's bold embrace,

you thrive in places dim and damp.

Miracle makers, in twilight's fold,

turning the old into the new.

As I walk this shaded path,

your wisdom whispers to my soul—

to find grace in the unseen,

to grow in the dark,

and to know the profound in the small.

---

Shadow broken.

Morning’s first light breaks through,

a quiet revelation, soft and sure,

touching the wall with tender fingers,

golden whispers on weathered stone.

Sunlight, delicate and true,

paints a tapestry of warmth and grace,

each ray a story, each shadow a pause,

creating a dance of light and life.

The wall, patient and unmoved,

becomes a canvas for the day’s first breath,

holding the glow in silent reverence,

a moment of peace, a promise kept.

In this simple, sacred hour,

I find a gentle stillness,

watching the sunlight weave its spell,

transforming the ordinary to the divine.

The wall, bathed in morning’s gift,

reminds me of the beauty in the fleeting,

the grace found in quiet places,

where light and time meet and linger.

---

Towering Oaks.

In the deep embrace of the woods,

where sunlight filters through

a thousand green fingers, I wander,

a pilgrim in a sacred grove.

The path is a ribbon of earth,

soft and forgiving beneath my feet,

lined with ferns that whisper

their ancient secrets to the breeze.

Towering oaks and whispering pines

stand sentinel, their branches

a cathedral of green and shadow,

a testament to endurance and grace.

Birdsong fills the air, a chorus

of joy and longing, each note

a bead of sound strung on the thread

of morning light, delicate and pure.

The forest floor, a mosaic of life,

teems with the humble and the small—

moss and lichen, beetles and ants,

all part of the grand design.

I come upon a clearing, bathed

in the soft gold of dawn, where

wildflowers nod in the gentle breeze,

their colors a hymn to the sun.

Here, the air is sweet with the scent

of pine and earth, a balm to the soul,

and the rustle of leaves is a lullaby,

a song of peace and belonging.

In the stillness, I hear the creek,

its waters laughing over stones,

a silver thread weaving through

the green tapestry, timeless and free.

Deeper into the woods I roam,

past ancient trees gnarled with age,

their roots a labyrinth beneath my feet,

holding the earth in a tender embrace.

Squirrels chatter and leap from branch

to branch, their quicksilver movements

a ballet of life, while a deer

pauses, eyes wide and luminous.

The woods are alive with stories,

etched in bark and stone, whispered

in the sigh of wind through needles,

told in the dance of light and shadow.

Time here is an elder, slow and wise,

measured in the growth of rings,

in the patient work of seasons,

in the ceaseless flow of life and death.

As the sun climbs higher, the woods

become a symphony of light, each

beam a note in a melody

that speaks to the heart’s deepest places.

I find a fallen log, softened

by moss, and sit to watch

the world unfold, to feel

the pulse of the forest in my veins.

Here, in this cathedral of green,

I am both lost and found, a part

of something vast and beautiful,

woven into the fabric of the woods.

And as I rise to leave, I carry

the forest with me, its wisdom

and its peace, a quiet ember

to warm the days that lie ahead.