The trees remember in a language
we were never meant to overhear—
sap translating grief into amber syllables,
thick with the slow arithmetic of decay.
Beneath them, the earth exhales quietly,
a cathedral of pressure and forgotten names,
where roots write their blind scripture
through marrow-dark corridors of time.
Something is always leaving—
not movement, but surrender—
a loosening of form into the unspeakable,
where even silence fractures into meaning.
And we, temporary as breath on cold bark,
mistake the wound for beauty,
the bleeding for a kind of truth
we could never hold without breaking.
Leon Drake is a Toronto based poet.
His work has been published in several publications through the years print and online
He loves his solitude, if you care to know him read his words for art is the best side of anyone.
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