Beneath the boughs where silence grows,
A hush more deep than night bestows,
I sit where light and shadow weave
Their secrets through the breathing leaves.

The wind, a whisper through this tree,
Repeats no word, yet speaks to me,
And in its voice, I seem to hear
A truth too soft for waking ear.

I lean against the knotted trunk,
Its bark time-worn, with secrets sunk
In rings that hold, from root to crown,
The weight of years in silence bound.

The green above, a living dome,
A gentle song, a loving home,
That shields me from both sun and storm,
Its heart so vast, its shelter warm.

Here cradled next to earth and tree,
I feel a thread that flows through me—
A pulse as old as stone and seed,
That moves where thought and soil meet.