I’ll go back to the forest, back to where it all began. Amidst the leaf mould vapours and the crackle of the tan. It gives, it crumbles, it slides beneath our feet – the earthen forest floor that embraces all it meets. Rot clutches wood and seed settles soil, and so renewal’s sown when time’s given toil.
A dewpoint held still by the smother of branches. A cool stream slipping by, and it rattles, it’s choked; flat pebbles and needles and twigs all amok. Fine tendrils of mist gracing the quieter pools. Glassy reflections of vast, cloud-scudded halls.
Down under the canopy, deep under the canopy, we can rest, we can sigh. Sounds captured in strands, passed by limbs to the floor – where wood rots to earth, in fragments, no more. A fern will unfurl, seen by unknowing eyes, and the breath from a pelt will puff out as it cries.
Along this rough bark in this deep fragrant mire, we’ll toss out our worries, we’ll wrestle and cry. It takes off our feathers, one piece by one. Then we’ll fall down, and we’ll shiver, and we’ll sob for the sun.
Yet the forest is quiet, and it’ll shelter us still. It’ll give naught more than impressions, take less than we will. For the forest is busy, feeding its cubs – the wood, and the water, and the crumbling muds.