Root Language

The roots don't ask for witness— they move through darkness with the patient insistence of breath, pressing into fissures the stone keeps secret.

Above, the tree leans into light, shaking its crown like applause, but the real work happens where no one thinks to look.

Each grain of earth remembers the push of white fingers, the slow rearrangement of seasons, the long thirst that built oceans from whispered rainfall.

This is how mountains forget themselves, how patience becomes stone, how silence learns to hold the weight of everything we see.