Tell me about the foxglove
and how it stands, tall and pink,
in the green cathedral of the woods.
The foxglove, that stately sentinel,
rises up amidst the verdant vastness,
a pillar of fuchsia hue piercing the gloom.
It stands as if in reverence,
a silent worshipper in nature’s sanctuary,
its delicate blooms reaching skyward in praise.
The woods, that verdant cathedral,
stretch out around it, the towering trees
its arching buttresses, the ferns its pews.
And there, the foxglove presides,
a high priestess of the forest floor,
its nectar-filled trumpets a siren’s call
to the hummingbirds and honeybees.
What sermon do those pink petals preach?
What liturgy do those leaves proclaim?
Perhaps it is simply the hymn of being,
the holiness of existing in this green shrine.
For the foxglove, it does not need to speak,
to grandstand or exhort with flowery words.
Its mere presence, its steadfast flowering,
is testament enough to nature’s majesty.
So tell me, what wisdom
can be gleaned from this woodland wanderer?
what lessons lie within its quiet witness,
its unwavering devotion to this hallowed place?
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