The Singing Grove
In verse and visual
The trees used to sing;
I’d rest under sun-dappled
canopy, cool earth
under my hands. My heart would
rise in harmony,
one with my kindred, feral
souls, writing psalms with
the breath our Creator
gave us.
(on remembering the mountain grove where I’d secretly go to worship God in safety. Penned 25 July 2025)
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