The forest doesn’t speak in words,
It hums through leaves and wings of birds.
A rhythm old, a breathing grace,
Time folded in this sacred place.
Each morning I walk where silence leads,
Where roots recall forgotten deeds.
Beneath my steps, these winding trails
Still echo Lenape songs and tales.
The caves lie hidden, dark and deep,
Their mouths whisper, secrets to keep.
They scare me still—yet call me near,
As if they hold what I must hear.
Snowdrops bloom with ghostly glow,
Daffodils nod in morning’s flow.
Are these the same that once did rise
When history danced beneath these skies?
Glacial potholes, smooth and wide,
Carved by ages that slipped and slid.
In their stillness lies a tale,
Of icy hands and tempests pale.
And these tall trees—what year were they born?
Did they witness joy, or weather scorn?
Did they watch the bows, the dance, the feast—
And now they watch Nathan, their latest beast.
This land’s old history breathes through bark and stone,
A world’s old truth not lost, but grown.
The sky wears blue like a prayer above—
Was it always dressed in such quiet love?
Was spring then brighter, bolder, free—
Or do my eyes paint what used to be?
Still, petals fall, and robins sing—
And time moves on in everything.
So I don’t just walk—I listen deep,
To secrets that the shadows keep.
In this land’s hush, I’ve come to know
That even silence learns to grow.