The Forest Breathes

Beneath the canopy's dark cathedral, where light arrives as scattered gold, the fallen have become the living— oak becomes soil becomes root in this patient alchemy of waiting.

A mushroom crown emerges from yesterday's wood, delicate as a child's whisper against the mouth of decay. Nothing ends here. It transforms.

The ferns uncurl their fiddleheads toward a sun they'll never see directly, content with what filters through the bodies of their elders, each shadow a gift.

I can smell the sweetness of rot, that honest perfume of release, where grief and abundance wear the same green face. Here, in this darkness, seeds remember.