POEM - The Language Of The Forest

Not one tongue, but multitudes, are spoken here,

In dappled light and deepest, shaded green,

A lexicon of life, both far and near,

The oldest dialogue ever to be seen.

It is not shaped by lip or human word,

But written in the growth of root and wing,

A whispered wisdom, patiently conferred

On those who quiet their own clamoring.

The cedars talk in rings, a patient chronicle

Of drought and deluge, seasons’ slow parade,

Their bark a scripture, vertical and conical,

In aromatic, sun-warmed colonnade.

They speak of time in centuries, not hours,

Of strength in standing firm through wind and fire,

Their conversation with the passing showers

A testament to a resilient, deep desire.

The birch, in paper-white and fractured black,

Recites a poem of resilience and light,

A candid, peeling, autobiographical tract

On reaching upward from the dark of night.

It shares its space with fungus, lace, and moss,

A collaborative, un-egoistic strain,

Understanding not of profit, but of loss

Transmuted into collective, living gain.

The ferns unfurl a verdant, silent speech

In fiddleheads that rise from damp, dark earth,

A sermon written just beyond our reach

On cycles of demise and sudden birth.

Their fronds, like open palms, receive the rain,

Then transpire a mist of gratitude,

A constant, gentle effort to sustain

The fragile, breathing forest’s latitude.

The woodpecker’s staccato, rhythmic knock

Deciphers truth beneath the splintered skin,

A percussive query on the solid stock

To find what life is harbored deep within.

The answer comes not as a word, but feast,

A proof that language serves a need to live,

A dialogue between the greatest and the least

That the most vital verbs are to receive and give.

The wind composes ballads as it passes,

A sibilant score through a million trembling leaves,

It hums in pines and through the meadow grasses,

A breath that gathers all it hears and weaves

The chitter of the squirrel, the jay’s sharp call,

The rustle of the fox in last year’s brush,

Into one polyphonic, rise-and-fall,

A symphony without a single hush.

And in the silence that the storm leaves after,

A deeper dialect begins to rise,

A hollow, ancient, and unmeasured laughter

Beneath the soil that feasts on fallen skies.

The mycelial web, a netted, ghostly brain,

Transmits its messages on filaments of white,

A chemical, electric, pulsing chain

That says, I am connected; you are not alone tonight.

So come and learn this untaught, foreign tongue.

Lay down your maps and slow your hurried pace.

Let go the words upon your eager tongue.

And find a truer grammar in this place.

It’s in the patient waiting of the seed,

The fallen log that nurses something new,

The interdependence of every weed and breed—

A language saying simply, I am part of you.

Short Summary :

"The Language of the Forest" is a professional-grade poem that explores the complex, non-verbal communication inherent in a forest ecosystem. It personifies various elements—trees, plants, animals, and natural forces—as articulate beings engaged in a continuous, ancient dialogue. The poem argues that this language is one of patience, resilience, interdependence, and cyclical renewal, written in growth patterns, sounds, and chemical signals rather than words. It invites the reader to become a student of this silent wisdom, suggesting that true understanding requires quieting human noise to comprehend the profound connections that sustain life. The forest’s ultimate message is one of unity and symbiotic existence: "I am part of you."