Cut Quill


I am alone in the wide wood, nearly. All time stands still around me, and roots itself as deep as the trees. Green tender blades of grass poke through the leaf litter, browned with an unutterable exquisite decay.

Pillowed in such setting, I recline beside a dryad whose presence I neither question nor begrudge. Leaves in her hair, bindweed tendrils neclacing her beneath pale chin, she is one with the forest. I am sure her soul is green.

Gently breathing, and asleep, it is as if the spirit of the whole sylvan round was there, and under my watch. I see her lashes, like resting butterflys, cozen her unseen eyes.

I look down to the browned-lovely floor and see an oblivious beetle pushes past leaf on leaf, unaware of its part in the greater forest around. Somewhere, a frog sings, and two butterflys flutter. A sweet zephyr escapes from delicate parted lips; and the forest-maid, yea, the forest beside me and about me, awakes.