Tag better, she laughs, leaving marks Of footprints, hopes, small makeshift sparks; Maps folded in the seams of time, The forest keeps its quiet rhyme.
Sun threads gold through needles thin, A year behind, a new begin; She learns to listen, learns to be— A single voice among the trees.
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Eighteen steps into the hush of dawn, A trail unnamed, a world unworn; Virgin green that holds its breath, Unrated sky, no script of death.
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Whispering Pines — 2022