The dormouse lrks even still, as this forest has the best acorns and other creatures..

A flurry of activity, and a dormouse sighted,
The slash, burn, pyre
rights ignited
Claims and righteous indignation come, slow, inescapable, one.
The forest has taken quite some hits, the path of population spread, and land quiet tilled, with disruptive concrete bled.
The silence now, the quiet, nay calm,
The fury of the other balm; a secret store, a place well hidden, a spot to hide from those unbidden. It's winter now, and on cool clear days the blazing sun warms a little, a small reminder that summer will come, the forest will regrow and still quiet,
Still,
Quiet
The candle flickers
And in the hush the slight curl of sweet smoke is missed, the secret safe and now, we wait for faeries, elves and more.
The calm snap of twig underfoot, a tarry too long, but oh the love, the love of sanctuary for it is our forest.

The sound of silk in the wind
A warm breeze,
the absent one, returning for a moment, riding the wind with h'er gilded wings.

Sh'e has been busy, this Fairy of the forest, sh'e has been in the world of the cis, lighting candles, fires in the hearts, the warrior fairy let loose upon this savage world.

Sh'e has not forgotten, but has been off to war.

3 candles are lit in the window, each with a stick of incense, to blow upon the wind through the silken curtains of h'er quiet treehouse.

The treehouse where Satinjoy lives.

Silently sh'e mounts the wind.  Sh'e will return again, as the wind takes h'er, for such is the way of fairies, of gender, of love.

Hello fairy,
I see your candles and have missed you.

Ahh the mad hatter has dropped in lol

Nice to see you too girl.

The dormouse scurries past, throwing painted acorns around..

The Hatter collects pretty acorns and pours tea for those who are and who are not here.

sh'e flies silently through the forest, remembering.  Remembering.

It is quiet, a painful, slow quiet.
That of a quiet turned down.
The thud of acorns and rustle of the dormouse
An unfamiliar with bold tea and collections passes
The Faerie has returned.
The gentle breeze catches the wind whisper of haze
Its scent familiar and dream, oh dream of future present
And slowly, the creeping grate of life pushes
Screeching to return
A past so verdant, vibrant, story bound
And yet the quiet, deep quiet, still quiet, sits
Dreamlike in the winter mist.

The cycle continues and that which was old in again renewed.  Be careful of the tea, it is magic and may cause uncontrollable joy.  I have more if you desire it and treats as well.

I hear the breeze which flutter through the present from the past and around the bend to the future.  It must be spring as the meadow of imagination is indeed verdant.

Peace

The Hatter looked at their watch.  It was nearly half passed July, where had the non-conforming ones gone?  She pondered this in a glen whose ground was littered with colorful broken acorns and an overturned teapot.

We know of the Unicorn Forest and how difficult it may be to find our way back.  Understanding and ancient cultural sanctions include banishment from such gardens when one dares to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge.
And yet do we persist in our desires to know ourselves and our beautiful world.

For so very many who fly by it is enough to know you are always there and that we are free to follow our dreams.

From under a fallen tree hazel green eyes peer out into the forest, curious and warm.  She's a fire kitsune; a type of mystical red furred fox sporting six curly tails.  She digs her burrow out into a larger home for herself to reside in, living so peacefully, and happily inside this magical place.

The end of July,
Tick
Tock.
Tick
Tock.
Tick
Tock.
The mechanical marcher moves on and yet, yet the quiet lives.
It is winter time, a poor time for seeds to be thrown, with the expectation of life.
It is always joy when the Faeries and the hatter are around, maybe spring will be the next.
Fresh green upon the world, reforming, whilst Kitsune sleep in fresh burrow deeply.
The draught of fresh air, giving life again.
Soon. Spring will come.

The Hatter looks askance! "Oh my, winter?  Where is my warm parka?"  The world seems to have shifted. High summer to deep winter.  These things happen when fairies dance too close to the portals of WinterSmith.  Where is the marcher of the seasons? 
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock

The kitsune awakens in her den to a covering of snow. She pokes her red snout through the cover in an attempt to be seen by the world outside, knowing that her den is still a safe place to hide, should she need of it.

She walks on,
The slow creak grate of fallen snow,
Jewelled and iridescent the forest glows.
Precious light is hard to find, what's there shimmer dances across the clearing.
A quiet huff is heard, near silent.
Life is close, found, refuge trapped warmly under the white
It will soon be spring,
Stepping slowly lazy dreaming of warmth to come.
This sanctuary space, fragrant and mystic has its draw, for those who've been
Or gone before.
And some arrive yet never leave, though sharp cold wind of ice cold nail that cast a beautific rainbowed veil and yet the calm,
Still quiet of white returns to highlight the simple fragrance cast upon the breeze, by a faerie fleeting by.
Come hatter, find a spot, watch the groan of hoar upon the bough, let the tock ticker rest a jot, and simply be.

Green shoots, stark,
Against the white,
Is spring arriving

Long it has been since sh'e was here.

Very long.

Sad eyes turn aside.  Sh'e is a ghost, a memory.  Lingering like a mortal elf.

Sh'e has aged.

All is not dead in the forest, my fairy.. The dormouse still lurks and paints her acorns. She also keeps your hut as tidy as she can.