The cries of babes ring out among the trees
bouncing off hidden roots and furtive hollows
flying into the leafy overgrowth
and halting suddenly in the dense roof cover

Here in the forest, all things are silent.
All sound dies off the lips of man.
Words are not wanted, nor are they needed,
the wood has a speech of its own.

The ancient oaks talk amongst themselves,
understand in their rings why you've come.
Feet clad in cloth tramp loudly through crunching leaves;
you make more sound than you know.

Every creak of young pine makes you cower in your flinty jeans.
The singing of robins, majestic and florid, makes you whip your head
to chimerical danger.
Everything in the wood is your foe.

Would you walk softly with your eyes a-roaming
and see the life that lives below?
Would you keep your head to the hidden realms
and let your feet tread where they please?

The cloth shoes dull your feet.
The harsh jeans steal the warmth.
Keep your lids wide, look to the open sky and understoried floor
for an image rivaled by none.

Here in the forest you shall find you mind,
hidden in the leaf and grain of trees.
Silence will reveal to you what has been lost
roots and hollows will give you your essence