Where branches blossom, twine and form an arch,
there may you glimpse an entrance to the world
where wildness is the living law of vein and vine.
She who stands sentinel amongst the leaves
is no sylvan spirit nor fey beauty in a realm of reavers,
who would mulch your flesh to ferment wine.
Though you cannot see them, the rocks are running
and the trees are pivots that the stars swirl round,
while the rivers tear silver ribbons down from cloud.
She is ancient, by any measure of your concrete clock
that would crack and turn to dust beneath weeds,
in the time it takes to speak her name out loud.
Yet the forests are far from immortal powers;
a fleeting green affliction or faddish beard of sorts
that conceal a scarred visage from its own regard.
She knows she is nothing - and the love of mortal men
for nature is a cruel infatuation she does not nurture,
as her true face transcends your talent as a bard.
