The dirt is paper: 

Each path littered with history, 

Stained with footprints of people passing through, 

Each mark, each blade of grass 

Has a poem worth reciting 

The trees are pens: 

They capture voices in the air, 

Stand silent as lives pass all around them, 

Each ring—every year lived 

Has a novel worth reading 

The lakes are ink: 

They exist in all large baby blue ovals 

and regal green rectangles.

Hiding secrets and eons of enigmas, 

Each murky mysterious depth 

Has a discovery worth studying 

Blades of grass whisper elegant 

poetry in the summer breeze, 

each ring of a tree holds 

novels from hidden conversations 

never exposed, lakes hold history, 

memoirs of creatures never shared, 

everything has a story worth telling.