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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ dry twig snaps beneath my boot~ solemn punctuation in this vaulted nave of oak and cedars. the canopy exhales: My hollowed trunk shelters nesting wrens; my frost-etched rings remember drought; my roots taste the buried stream's cool pulse. I tilt my head—a supplicant~ as bark breathes against my palm. the oldest oak leans close: Child, stillness is the first consonant.
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