Mystical Groves

The grove breathes in soft shadows,

its ancient arms reaching for the sky’s tender curve.

Leaves, etched in jade and gold, murmur faint songs,

while the air smells of damp earth and possibility.

A path, carved by neither hand nor design,

winds between trunks like veins in a leaf,

leading me deeper into a place older than memory.

The light here is different,

filtered through a lattice of longing and growth,

casting patterns on the ground—moving art

that shifts with every sigh of the unseen breeze.

I walk slower now,

aware of how the world narrows into moments

when stillness speaks louder than sound.

But then—the air trembles,

a subtle shift in the unseen fabric.

The grove seems to lean in,

its towering giants swaying,

not from the wind but something deeper,

as if the earth itself exhaled.

I stop, press my hand to the nearest tree.

Its bark is rough, alive with quiet vibrations,

a heartbeat that mirrors my own.

For a moment, I feel small,

yet tethered to something vast—

a communion of roots, soil, and sky,

bound by a magic older than time itself.

And I wonder:

Do the trees dream of us,

as we dream of them,

both trying to touch the infinite?