My passion for beauty.
The ancient pines begin to speak,
A quiet, rustling, wind-swept sound,
Of twisted boughs and mossy peaks,
And treasures resting on the ground.
I walk beneath the leafy dome,
Where every shadow holds a spark,
And feel as if I’ve wandered home
Among the whispers in the park.
A fallen branch, a strip of bark,
A stone smoothed down by rushing streams—
These are the embers in the dark
That kindle up my waking dreams.
To see the beauty in the green,
To let the forest guide my hand,
Is weaving magic, felt, unseen,
With what is wild across the land.
No effort brings the form to light,
The making comes as natural
As leaves unfolding to the sight,
Or shadows chasing after fall.
The timber turns to art and grace,
As what was wild becomes my own,
A partnership of time and place,
Between the forest and the bone.