Under the rustling ferns and bushes
Lies green moss, dripping with winter dew.
Woody roots dig silently below, concealing their strength
With seasons of autumn leaves that keep their secret.
Happy earthworms devour the mulch of browns and greys
In which the mushrooms grow.
If you listen carefully, you might hear the earthworms eating.
Beneath them lies the soil of ages past,
Dark and still, visited only by the roots of tallest trees.
The soil knows nothing of the chirping forest above,
That leaf by leaf it fed.
Down there, amid the rocks and clay, forgotten,
lies who I used to be.