These tiny white tendrils
perched like innocent ears atop a mossy log
listening to the secrets of the forest…
What stories could they tell us, if they had mouths?
For they have heard the early morning trilling of birds
when everything else was silent
save for dew drops dripping from tall trees
bearded with curly mosses.
at the lake’s edge,
the liquid murmurs flowing over submerged logs
soaked with sunken memories
ones I dare not extract from their watery repose
lest I tumble in and get absorbed by their somnolence.
they could tell of green and growing things,
of red and rotting things,
and of the perfect patience of trees
which live and die and even in death
keep giving life.