He Carried the Wild
He did not speak of it.
The trees grew quiet on his spine,
sap thickening in the grooves
where years had settled.
Moss gathered at his shoulders,
soft with old rain.
Ferns unfurled along his ribs,
brushing the edge of breath.
He moved slowly,
not to disturb the nesting birds
or the roots that held his balance.
Each step pressed seeds
into the earth.
Children once played
in the shadow of his neck,
threading twigs through his hair,
hunting snakes,
asking if he remembered
the sky.
He only turned
when the wind shifted,
when the canopy whispered
a name long unspoken.
No one asked
how long he had carried
the silence of branches,
the weight of growing.
Only that he walked,
and the green followed.
