life in the forest
in the end, it is the green that saves her
the soft whirr of wings on the wind
the quiet stoicism of the trees
unaging, uncomplaining
stolidly bearing the scars of their years
in the forest, she forgets
except to call each leaf by its name
to catch the sunlight in a spider’s web
and to recognise the voicesÂ
of those who sing
Notes
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