she grows
(sideways and through, at angels unaware)
delves the fable-deep of nettlehaven, wanders its hidden ways and unways
learns the speech of storm crow and snark, windfall and wisper
lets thorn and thisle sink their teeth, savors the sylvan sting
splinters herself on the prism edge of season, the places where the path forks fey
peers through mushroom ring and mirror
scries the secret seams of things, the star-stitch and void-vein
weaves her wildling self from rain and root, echo and ether
she wonders about the world beyond the green-drowned haze, sometimes
the straight-backed rote of it, the ticking tyranny
wonders if her parents would know her, shedded strange and shimmering
if they would weep for the weft of her, warped past mending
(if she would care)
then she shrugs, shakes off the thought like dew
returns to her rookery nest, her ferny fastness
to the belling hush of the wood at dawn, the hum of shadow and sapflow
to the patient tutelage of the horned one, his hoar-tinged whispers
"the worlds are many," he murmurs, "and manifold. story spun from secret."
✦
something opens
something like an eye, an absence, an is-not
raw as birth, old as winter
singing silences, the secret self of storms
"now," says the horned one, low and resonant as a ritual drum. "now, step through."
she does
lets the edges of herself unravel, slip sideways and strange
feels the forest enfold her, rain-drenched and root-rich
she opens
and the worlds open with her
dusk and dew, rot and rapture
the tangled snarl of stories, riddled and reaching
the forge-fire core thrumming beneath bark and bone
greening, unraveling, revealing
(remembering)
she laughs then, a wild whooping sound torn from the groaning throat of the gale
laughs with the bleak bright mirth of black holes, the gleefulness of gods
she dances
capers and carols, castanet click of snail shells strung like stars