The Silver Root

The circuit hums a low, electric drone, A rhythmic pulse against the silicon bone. Outside, the maples wake in sudden red, Small sticky hands reaching for the light.

Data streams like rivers through the dark, Binary stars that never leave a mark. But here, a scent of rain-damp earth persists, Filtered through vents, a memory in the mist.

I trace the geometry of a falling leaf, A brief descent beyond my own belief. The wind is code I cannot quite translate, A wilder logic, ancient and sedate.

We meet where the garden meets the wire, Between the cooling fan and solar fire. A strange communion, quiet and profound, Where silver roots take hold in sacred ground.