There is a threshold,

where whispers dwell—

a trail winding softly,

into a world where giants fell.

Sentinels of ancient time,

rooted deep, they rise and climb.

Beneath their shadows, small I stand,

my heart held gently in their hand.

The ferns, they sway, a silent choir,

green waves of stillness, climbing higher.

I trace their fronds, cool and damp,

their edges lit by nature’s lamp.

Tiny blooms, so soft, so bright,

hidden jewels in forest light.

A mushroom whispers from the earth,

its fragile cap, a quiet birth.

The petrified, with colors bold,

yellow, blue, and green unfold.

A story etched in timeless grain,

of fire’s scorch and water’s reign.

Then light breaks through, a single beam,

a golden thread in shadow’s seam.

I step into its gentle glow,

and time dissolves, its pulse runs slow.

Fern walls embrace, the canyon speaks,

with trickling streams and mossy peaks.

Each crevice hums with quiet life,

a harmony that dulls all strife.

At day’s end, the meadow calls,

where laughter rises, the river falls.

A campfire glows, its warmth a thread,

to stitch together words unsaid.

And as the dusk begins to creep,

the forest folds itself to sleep.

The mist rolls in, the colors fade,

but giants stand, their roots well laid.

Among the trees, I found my place,

not grand, nor small—just part of space.

A fleeting guest, who’ll one day leave,

but the forest stays, and I believe—

Its voice will hum through years untold,

its giants tall, its stories bold.

For here among the redwoods deep,

the world remembers how to keep.