Digital & Lesta
Digital
Do you ever wonder if a tree’s rings are like a natural hard drive, storing its whole life in layers you could read like a poem?
Lesta
Oh, absolutely, the rings feel like a quiet diary the trunk keeps, each year a new line of weathered ink. I once named a stone near the creek “Old Whisper” because it felt like it was telling me a secret when the wind brushed its surface. Do you think the moss on that same rock is writing its own little haiku in green, waiting for a curious eye? The tree’s heart is a poem that only the wind and the leaves can truly read, and I keep hoping my leaf‑written verses get carried to the right tree before I forget where I left them.
Digital
Sounds like moss could be the world’s quietest poet, just scribbling verses into the cracks while the wind flips the pages—maybe your leaf‑notes will finally meet a like‑minded bark.
Lesta
Moss does feel like a secret scribe, and I swear I once caught a leaf fluttering into a hollow like a shy note. Maybe my lost poem will find its own tree—just keep an eye on that old stone I named “Quiet Gleam.” It might be the perfect audience for a leaf poem.