Sapling, a fragile reaching,
towards the sun's insistent call.
Woods cradle the tender green,
leaves unfurling, a soft whisper
against the rough bark.
Greenery spills, a vibrant stain
on the earth's dark canvas.
Roots, tenacious fingers, grasping,
anchoring, a silent conversation
with the soil's hidden depths.
Branches, arms outstretched,
a latticework of shadows,
sheltering secrets whispered
on the wind's breath.
Timber, the heartwood's strength,
a testament to time endured,
seasons weathered, storms survived.
Forest, a living tapestry, woven
with rustling leaves and silent growth.
Leaves, a symphony of color,
shifting with the sun's slow dance.
Gold, crimson, a fiery farewell
before the quiet sleep of winter.
The cycle continues, a rhythm
unfolding, a timeless ballet
of life and death.
Sunlight, a golden cascade,
filtering through the canopy's embrace.
Each ray a promise, a whisper
of renewal, of warmth, of life.
Roots, a tangled embrace,
drawing strength from the earth's core.
Branches, reaching for the heavens,
a silent plea, a quiet prayer.
Twilight descends, a hush falls,
the tree stands sentinel, guardian
of whispered dreams, secrets held
in the rustling leaves.
Forest's heart beats softly,
a symphony of whispers, a chorus
of life, a testament to time.
Timber's strength, roots' embrace,
leaves' gentle sigh, a story told
in the language of the woods.
From my lesson in Picadilly's Write the Poem
