The Silent Witness
I rise from roots and weathered stone,
Half-man, half-forest—old, alone.
I’ve seen the rivers shift their course,
The mountains crumble, the tides grow hoarse.
My skin is bark, my breath is leaves,
My veins run slow where sap still weaves.
I knew your kind when hearts beat wild,
Before the earth was left exiled.
You chase your truths in mirrored glass,
While mine are carved in rings that last.
The wind still speaks, the branches call,
But few remain who hear at all.
Your lives flare fast, then fade to dust,
Brief embers lost to time’s cold gust.
Yet I endure—silent, knowing,
Marking years as rivers flowing.
Step deeper in, beyond the light,
Where ancient voices shape the night.
Not beast nor god, I simply stand—
A witness to the world you planned.
I wrote this poem as a reflection on the quiet, ancient presence of the forest—something that endures while the world around it shifts, changes, and often forgets. There’s a weight to that kind of existence, a patience that outlasts fleeting human moments. The idea of a being, neither entirely man nor tree, standing in silent witness to time intrigued me. It’s not a guardian or a monster, just something that exists, watching as we pull further away from the natural world.
Lately, I’ve been feeling that pull myself—the tension between wanting to embrace the world as it is and longing for something different. We’re still stuck in this in-between season, where winter refuses to fully let go, but spring isn’t quite here yet. The days are getting longer, but the world still feels dim, and that’s been reflected in my photography. My images feel darker than I want them to be, heavier. I find myself yearning for the softness of spring, the glow of new leaves, the warmth of golden light filtering through the trees.
Tonight’s photo walk at Salt Creek was a perfect example of that contrast. The rain fell steadily, the sky was heavy, and everything felt hushed, wrapped in shades of deep green and gray. Seven of us braved the weather, and though the conditions weren’t ideal, there was something grounding about being out there, camera in hand, just existing in that space. I know the light will return. The seasons will shift, and I’ll find myself drawn to brighter images again. But for now, I’m still standing in the quiet, watching and waiting—just like the forest.
