“Moss on tree trunks in the forest”

Emerald whispers line the ancient bark,  
Soft-spun tapestries where shadows mark  
The hush between the root and leafy spire—  
A living quilt that yearns to climb still higher.  

Dew wakes the moss at dawn’s first golden gleam,  
Each tiny frond a lantern for a dream;  
A velvet hush beneath cathedral leaves,  
Where filtered sun through silent branches weaves.  

How quietly it gathers, stitch by stitch,  
A kingdom for the tadpole and the midge,  
And secrets, too—of rainstorms long since fled,  
Infusing living green through wood and thread.  

A verdant library of shade and time,  
Pages ruffled by the wind’s faint rhyme,  
It cradles beetle, lichen, hidden nest,  
The velvet threshold where all woodland rests.  

So let us linger, gentle as the moss,  
While filtered sunlight gilds the world across;  
For stillness grows where glistening carpets spread,  
Life’s quiet miracle in emeralds bred.

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