Whispers of the Forest

 

When I walk through the forest,
I hear the sound of rustling leaves,
Soft as a sigh, gentle as breath,
A hush that morning weaves.

Each step stirs ancient stories,
Beneath the boughs they lie—
Secrets carried on the breeze,
And murmured to the sky.

The sunlight dances through the green,
In patterns old and wise,
And shadows shift like fleeting thoughts
That blink behind closed eyes.

No voice is raised, no trumpet calls,
Yet something stirs my soul—
As if the trees remember me,
And whisper, whole to whole.

And in that hush, a question forms,
Not loud, but clear and still—
What part of me belongs to this,
And what bends to its will?

The moss beneath remembers rain,
The bark holds time like truth,
And I, a fleeting visitor,
Am drawn back to my youth.

A broken stump, a winding path,
A tree I used to know—
It held my name in carving deep,
From lifetimes long ago.

I see a flash of running feet,
A laugh caught in the air,
The echo of a younger me,
Still dreaming somewhere there.

Now all is still—the woods have drawn
Their cloak of silence tight,
And I am but a single breath
Within the falling light.

No need for words, no need for form,
The forest does not mind
That I am lost in thought, alone,
And softened in the mind.

And yet, the breeze begins again,
A promise on its wing,
That even endings hold a bud,
And still the robins sing.

So as I walk, I shed the weight
Of things I cannot hold—
The forest takes them gently in,
And offers back the gold.

And when I leave, the forest stays,

Its whispers in my chest—
Not as a place I wandered through,
But as a place of rest.

It asked for nothing, gave me peace,
And something still, and true—
A part of me was left behind,
And something born anew.