Echo of the Forest

The forest hums in emerald shrouds,
Its breath concealed by shifting clouds.
The trees, their spines like ancient lore,
Are sages rooted to the core.

A willow weeps, its fingers fray,
The earth consumes its tears of gray.
Through mossy veins, the whispers glide,
A language green, a voice inside.

The pine trees pierce the azure dome,
Their needled arms reach toward a home.
The wind entwines their fragrant hymn,
A fleeting kiss on branches slim.

The brook, a poet of the glen,
Writes fleeting verses once, then when.
Its waters sing in fluid rhyme,
A fleeting measure lost to time.

And through the dusk, the fireflies gleam,
Their lanterns weave a fleeting dream.
They light the dark with tiny stars,
Yet fade like echoes from afar.