What the Roots Remember

The language of stillness, spoken in root and stone.

There are stories too old for language.
Ones the wind forgot,
but the roots did not.

Beneath the hush of violet leaves,
where the bark swells with glowing memory,
the Earth keeps her oldest truths—
not in books or voices,
but in the quiet
curl of a root
wrapping itself around the bones of time.

Two small creatures listen,
not with ears,
but with presence.

Here, memory is not a thought.
It is a pulse.
It is a shimmer in the soil.
It is the breath of something ancient
that still believes in us.

Not all remembering is looking back.
Some is sinking in.