It's Still Life

In the forest’s throat
the oldest voice is root-deep.
Slow.
Patiently churning.

It speaks in a language
of decay
and renewal.
Unhurried
and whispering —
what we never thought to hear.

Its green voice, thin
and light, softly
susurrus
leaf against leaf,
tiny tongues
debating
the wind’s direction.

It quickens —
a shrew’s panicked prayer,
a beetle’s silent counting,
an owl’s velveteen questions
that need no answer.

And holding it all,
a voice that sounds
like mine, the one I left behind
at the forest edge.

It waits.
Root and leaf,
quick and ancient,

for a voice that knows
its song.