Dense

Dense

In the heart of the ancient wood the canopy grew dense,
A tapestry of leaf and branch that shut out heaven’s gleam;
Sunlight filtered through the green‑tinged haze, a shy, diffused sense,
As if the world had drawn a veil and whispered, “hold this dream.”

The moss lay thick upon the loam, a sponge of quiet tread,
Each footfall muffled by the carpet that the roots had spun;
Birdsong was a muted hymn, the wind a low‑threaded thread,
And time itself seemed slowed, as though the air had weight to shun.

Yet within that opacity a pulse of life did stir,
Foxes slipped through shadowed glades, their eyes like amber fire;
Fungi burst from rotting bark, a quiet, humble blur,
While dew‑kissed spiders wove their lace, persisting higher.

So let us learn from woods that stand so dense and deep,
That thickness can conceal both shadow and the seed of sleep;
In compactness we find a strength, a shelter, fold, and keep—
A reminder that the richest growth often lies where light won’t leap.