Revisionist Poetry – “Cathedral of Roots” – Dragon Head, v.3

I wander through a parliament of trunks—
their leaves exchanging secret currencies of light.
The path is a shroud: a carpet of upturned roots,
brown and papery as fossilized sails.

One root reveals itself like a counted vertebra,
curved and patient as a memory. I kneel—
the earth remembers a throat, a jaw—
not with facts but with the hollow of reverence.

The trees, keepers of that long hour, lean in;
their silence reads like cathedral glass.
A wind moves through them: a rasp, an old name.
I feel, suddenly, the after-heat of flight—
a relic’s quiet insistence that once the world burned wider.