The forest did not grow out of the ground as much as it was pushed out; pushed out by the continuous death and renewal of the world it grew on.
This forest is dark and curly and gracefully tangled.
Eyes search through this forest and never find the same thing twice. Yet, this forest is all the same: the same being; the same sway; the same life.
My eyes don’t search through this forest because there is nothing more to find than the forest itself. They rest in this forest, this haven of comfort.
My fingers, though, search this forest. Search it for the softness of love and the silk of the soul. Sometimes they find a place where this forest has knotted itself like burled wood, and in a reversal of fate, I gently release it.
This forest moves with the wind.
Her hair moves with the wind.