In the hush of emerald glades where sunlight drips like gold,
three visions bloom—ancient guardians, bark-skinned and bold.
Let me unfurl their stories in verses woven tight,
a trilogy of tree-folk, reading beneath the light.
---
I. The Solitary Sage
Beneath a crown of whispering leaves, one elder sits alone,
his face a map of centuries, etched deep in knot and stone.
Eyes like hollowed acorns gleam with sorrow’s quiet art,
a beard of twisted root-fibers trails from chin to heart.
He cradles an open tome, its pages leather-brown,
as if the book were grafted from the soil of his own crown.
Sunbeams pierce the canopy, igniting every vein
of leaf and limb and fingertip—illumination’s reign.
O solitary sage, what lore do you devour?*
Perhaps the annals of the wind, the secrets of the flower?
Or tales of human wanderers who carved their names in you,
then vanished like the morning mist, leaving scars anew?
Your gaze is soft yet infinite, a pool of ancient knowing;
you read not for the ending, but for the endless growing.
In silence you absorb the world, a library of rings,
each circle in your trunk a year, each year a song it sings.
---
II. The Laughing Companions
Now shift the scene to dappled shade where two young siblings play,
their faces bright with cartoon joy, their branches in ballet.
Perched birds like living jewels—blue, yellow, russet, teal—
flit above their open books, adding notes to what they feel.
Their pages glow with gibberish, a script of make-believe,
yet every invented syllable makes the forest breathe.
One reads aloud in rustling tones: *“The sky was friends with rain…”
The other counters, giggling: *“And clouds wore candy canes!”*
O laughing companions, what magic do you spin?
You turn the mundane woodland into kingdoms without end.
Your stories sprout like seedlings from the humor in your eyes,
and every bird that listens learns a little of the skies.
No solemn weight of ages bends your supple, youthful frames;
you read to chase the shadows and to kindle hidden flames.
In your shared mirth, the forest finds its heartbeat quick and light—
a reminder that even roots can dance beneath the night.
---
III. The Whispering Lovers
At last, in misty corridors where dawn and twilight blend,
two lovers lean as one, their trunks in gentle bend.
A hollow in the left one’s breast—a door for owl or wren—
while sunlight frames their faces like a haloed amen.
Their books are dark and weighty, bound in crimson and in brown,
yet held with tender reverence, as if they wore a crown.
No words escape their lips, but oh, the language of their gaze—
a conversation deeper than any printed phrase.
O whispering lovers, what volumes do you share?
Perhaps the poetry of seasons, the arithmetic of care?
Or chronicles of starlight that fell upon your leaves,
and how you learned to hold it when the evening weaves?
Between you, silence speaks in roots entwined beneath the ground,
a library of heartbeats, where no loneliness is found.
The birds that perch above you are mere punctuation marks
in the epic you are writing with your intertwined arcs.
---
Coda: The Trinity of Reading Trees
Three tableaux, one great truth: the act of reading binds
the solitary soul, the playful mind, the heart that love entwines.
From sage to child to lover, the pages turn the same—
to root us in the mystery, to call us by our name.
So let the sunlight gild the leaves, let birdsong be the choir,
let every tree that reads become a living, breathing pyre
of stories, dreams, and silences that outlast stone and sea—
for in the act of reading, we all become the tree.
three visions bloom—ancient guardians, bark-skinned and bold.
Let me unfurl their stories in verses woven tight,
a trilogy of tree-folk, reading beneath the light.
---
I. The Solitary Sage
Beneath a crown of whispering leaves, one elder sits alone,
his face a map of centuries, etched deep in knot and stone.
Eyes like hollowed acorns gleam with sorrow’s quiet art,
a beard of twisted root-fibers trails from chin to heart.
He cradles an open tome, its pages leather-brown,
as if the book were grafted from the soil of his own crown.
Sunbeams pierce the canopy, igniting every vein
of leaf and limb and fingertip—illumination’s reign.
O solitary sage, what lore do you devour?*
Perhaps the annals of the wind, the secrets of the flower?
Or tales of human wanderers who carved their names in you,
then vanished like the morning mist, leaving scars anew?
Your gaze is soft yet infinite, a pool of ancient knowing;
you read not for the ending, but for the endless growing.
In silence you absorb the world, a library of rings,
each circle in your trunk a year, each year a song it sings.
---
II. The Laughing Companions
Now shift the scene to dappled shade where two young siblings play,
their faces bright with cartoon joy, their branches in ballet.
Perched birds like living jewels—blue, yellow, russet, teal—
flit above their open books, adding notes to what they feel.
Their pages glow with gibberish, a script of make-believe,
yet every invented syllable makes the forest breathe.
One reads aloud in rustling tones: *“The sky was friends with rain…”
The other counters, giggling: *“And clouds wore candy canes!”*
O laughing companions, what magic do you spin?
You turn the mundane woodland into kingdoms without end.
Your stories sprout like seedlings from the humor in your eyes,
and every bird that listens learns a little of the skies.
No solemn weight of ages bends your supple, youthful frames;
you read to chase the shadows and to kindle hidden flames.
In your shared mirth, the forest finds its heartbeat quick and light—
a reminder that even roots can dance beneath the night.
---
III. The Whispering Lovers
At last, in misty corridors where dawn and twilight blend,
two lovers lean as one, their trunks in gentle bend.
A hollow in the left one’s breast—a door for owl or wren—
while sunlight frames their faces like a haloed amen.
Their books are dark and weighty, bound in crimson and in brown,
yet held with tender reverence, as if they wore a crown.
No words escape their lips, but oh, the language of their gaze—
a conversation deeper than any printed phrase.
O whispering lovers, what volumes do you share?
Perhaps the poetry of seasons, the arithmetic of care?
Or chronicles of starlight that fell upon your leaves,
and how you learned to hold it when the evening weaves?
Between you, silence speaks in roots entwined beneath the ground,
a library of heartbeats, where no loneliness is found.
The birds that perch above you are mere punctuation marks
in the epic you are writing with your intertwined arcs.
---
Coda: The Trinity of Reading Trees
Three tableaux, one great truth: the act of reading binds
the solitary soul, the playful mind, the heart that love entwines.
From sage to child to lover, the pages turn the same—
to root us in the mystery, to call us by our name.
So let the sunlight gild the leaves, let birdsong be the choir,
let every tree that reads become a living, breathing pyre
of stories, dreams, and silences that outlast stone and sea—
for in the act of reading, we all become the tree.
The Sunday Circle