The morning light caresses the trees, 

this light is holy, its gaze benign.

Do you measure the Earth by the breadth of these branches,

by the tenderness of those interlocking limbs,

or by the soft anchorage of their sturdy roots?

Silently, silently, walk below.

This is yours to touch, yours to breathe.

The very beat of your own heart

can be heard in the soothing whisper of the leaves.

The clamour of birdsong cannot be stilled.

It has a voice of its own, a voice that demands to be heard.

Lines extend the length of the aged bark, 

the marks of an ageless soul.

The forest thrums under the watchful eye of the sun.

The steady flow of the brook, never ceasing, 

it courses through your veins

to the heart of the forest.