Acrylic and rose pigment on canvas
2024
157.5 x 91.4 cm. 62 x 36 in.
–A Language Only Forests Understand–
The fence still wanders through the sleeping woods,
As though it never knew where boundaries stood.
It weaves through fern and weather-beaten pine,
Till every borrowed border is resigned.
The forest never argued over land;
Only we believed it could be planned.
We spent our lives believing
they were building forever.
Stone upon stone.
Dream upon dream.
Never noticing that eternity
belonged to the moss creeping beneath our feet.
Every abandoned home
is a monument to certainty—
a confession carved in timber,
admitting that everything we called mine
was only borrowed from the earth.
The wind still walks the rooms without a name,
No ash, no blame, no memory to claim.
It hums through broken rafters, soft and slow,
Where only roots remember what we know.
The trees keep no account of wrong or right;
They measure years by darkness, rain, and light.
So here they stand, two houses set apart,
Not just by distance, but the human heart.
The fence dissolves where ivy learns to climb,
The paths surrender quietly to time.
And somewhere, where the tallest branches nod,
The silence speaks the grammar taught by God.
For every wall returns at last to sod,
And every road grows humble before God.
The forest writes what pride could never frame,
Until the earth forgets our every name.
He finishes the sentence we began,
In a language only forests understand.
Acrylic and rose pigment on canvas
2024
157.5 x 91.4 cm. 62 x 36 in.
–A Language Only Forests Understand–
The fence still wanders through the sleeping woods,
As though it never knew where boundaries stood.
It weaves through fern and weather-beaten pine,
Till every borrowed border is resigned.
The forest never argued over land;
Only we believed it could be planned.
We spent our lives believing
they were building forever.
Stone upon stone.
Dream upon dream.
Never noticing that eternity
belonged to the moss creeping beneath our feet.
Every abandoned home
is a monument to certainty—
a confession carved in timber,
admitting that everything we called mine
was only borrowed from the earth.
The wind still walks the rooms without a name,
No ash, no blame, no memory to claim.
It hums through broken rafters, soft and slow,
Where only roots remember what we know.
The trees keep no account of wrong or right;
They measure years by darkness, rain, and light.
So here they stand, two houses set apart,
Not just by distance, but the human heart.
The fence dissolves where ivy learns to climb,
The paths surrender quietly to time.
And somewhere, where the tallest branches nod,
The silence speaks the grammar taught by God.
For every wall returns at last to sod,
And every road grows humble before God.
The forest writes what pride could never frame,
Until the earth forgets our every name.
He finishes the sentence we began,
In a language only forests understand.
