Hush. Listen. Can you hear her?
She blooms in your veins, she sings in your dreams, she dances on your skin like seed silk. She pulls you in beyond the edge, into the trees, into the quiet. The bark creaks, new wood twisting beneath its skin, the air shimmers mist and bluebells and sun and moon. Acorns and beech nuts constellate the floor, stars beneath unfurling bracken. She calls you, calls you in, to the cracks and the crevices, the burrows and the hollows, the homes of those that creep and crawl and slink and trot and walk and flap and fly. The sounds, oh, the sounds of her, the chirping, crunching, slithering, rushing breath of all that she is; you feel the memories flutter, a tantalising flicker of freedom. She draws you in deep, her roots finding yours, guiding them down, down through the rot and the mould to the loam and the worm tunnels, down to the map of mycelia and other roots, other beings, all connected, all one here. The flow is streams and waterfalls and rivers, veins and arteries that sustain all hearts as one. And just as you are melding into the tide you burst up again, through the surface, black with earth and berry blooded, unfurling, birthing, budding, reaching for the clear sky and the tender light. She is atomic and infinite, the spirit of the forest; she is everything, she is you.
How could you have forgotten?