Undercurrents

The roots know what the branches cannot see— how water finds the smallest cracks in stone, how silence builds the world's architecture.

Below the footsteps, beneath the laughter, a patient geometry unfolds: mycorrhizal networks whisper in the dark soil's slow conversation.

We walk on miracles we cannot see, our weight held by the labor of the unseen, by the quiet insistence of becoming.

The tree does not hurry its reaching, does not rush the underground work that will hold it through the storm. What grows in secret will not break when the wind arrives.