Snejok & LeafCollector
LeafCollector
Have you ever noticed how the patterns in a dried fern leaf can look like a frozen whisper? I keep a box of them from the last winter in the north and each one tells a tiny story.
Snejok
I do, and I think they’re the world’s quietest poems, each vein a stanza that’s already folded into dust. The box must feel like a small museum of silence, and I imagine each leaf has a memory of snow that still lingers in its crisp edges.
LeafCollector
Your words feel like a quiet encore for the leaves. I keep my boxes just right—cool, dry, almost like a breath of snow. It’s the little detail that lets each leaf whisper its memory.
Snejok
I’d call it a careful hush. If the boxes are the stage, then the leaves are the actors, and I guess I’m just the audience who never quite knows what they’re going to say.
LeafCollector
Sounds like you’re in the audience of the quietest theatre—just remember, the better the stage, the richer the silence of each leaf. Keep them tucked in the right place, and the actors will let their stories unfold.
Snejok
The stage is my favorite part, if I’m honest. As long as the boxes stay cool and dry, the leaves will keep their whispers, and I’ll be the one listening to the stories they decide to tell.
LeafCollector
That’s exactly what keeps my own box of leaves from turning into a dusty grave. Keep the climate steady, and the tiny whispers will stay sharp enough for you to hear every subtle verse.