Shadows Speak Softly

They thread between the swaying trees,

like silver threads you cannot see,

a murmur caught in drifting leaves,

a secret meant for only me.

The wind bends low,

its breath is thin,

a sigh that slides along my skin,

each word half-formed,

yet sinking deep,

like voices stirring from their sleep.

I turn, but shadows hold their ground,

no lips to match the fleeting sound,

just echoes brushed against my ear,

too faint to flee,

too close to fear.

They tell of things the dusk has known,

of roots and bones,

of moss and stone,

and though I cannot make them clear,

I walk the path

they follow near.