It's a little overgrown here and there,
In need of a good prune,
Sadness lingers still but yet light filters in
For soon it will be times for talking, and taking stock
Seeing where and when and how or what
Slowly I shuffle onward, wondering what new bitter pills will be
Whilst all around the blossom grows shower fragrant petal snow, bright on the meadow green and gold
Glistens in the fiery thrall.

Outside the forest rages a battle in the cisworld, the place beyond the city of trans and the unicorn forsets.

Sh'e is scarred from the fighting, the old fairy, sh'e has fought long and hard.

Looking down sh'e sees an acorn path, and turns aside.

It leads to a familiar place in the heart of the forest, full of memories and light.

Sh'e will rest a while.

Guilded wings unfurl, satin and silk , small breasted, fully sh'e, yet they, fully trans, sh'e is the Fairy, others are too.

Aging sh'e walks down a path full of old memories.

A tear is in h'er eye.

Some remember.  Some will not.  The history here is deep, hidden, and in places, full of old hurts.

But such is the way of the great forest.  Sh'e sighs, and dreams of the freedom of all trans, to live true.

And a forest as experienced by a single tree is witnessed in the gnarled and twisted limbs, burls and darkened bark.  Fires have raged and yet the old growth trees are the most resilient with broken crowns and multiple apical dominances.  They provide a lush canopy that can nurture our young, reduce the hurricane winds and the howls of discrimination too.  Some forests and trees are much like us.

On the NW coast our Sitka Spruce is comfortingly familiar as non binary! Yes, this evergreen is monoecious. Female strobili are produced at the ends of primary branches near the top, while the male strobili are positioned lower in the tree on secondary branches.  These trees thrive well with others that most often include cedar and hemlock.

Our unicorn forest is sure to reflect the ancient survival techniques of other long lived giants.  Shade and nurture our young.  Protect and sing to them with sighs and whispers.  Grow in harmony and stand tall for the truth.

A gentle smile is on h'er lips.

A pleasent place to rest, under this tree.  A tree kind of like sh'e.

Sh'e relaxes, and lights a stick of incense.

Sh'e is like the wind.  Sh'e rides it, unpredictable.

The leaves whisper, a gentle lullaby.

The gypsy Fairy rests.  And puts a flower in h'er hair.

The scent of incense returns to the old forest.

Calming, the ghostly lullaby,
Sing whispers of winds breath,
Feint traces sweet of fragrance,
Wait while the faerie rests.
Strong tough gnarled and generous, all our shelters are,
The forest journey for some complete,
The others just being born.
Come step a while, damp and dusky, pleasant cooling shade,
See where the forest leads you, Appleton or glade
Come join the creatures, step inside, and wonder
Wander, Wonder.

The old groundhog lies in the shade.  It has been a hot summer, yet the heat no longer warms her bones the way it used to.  And now she feels the first chill of the winter to come on the autumn breezes.  The winters seem longer and the summers shorter.

She finds it harder each year to eat enough to build up enough fat to last her through the winter.  The leaves and twigs and roots no longer bring her taste buds pleasure the way they used to, and eating has become more of a chore than a joy, a duty she owes her body.

She is still the odd one out.  She still sleeps alone, she still searches alone for something her stomach will bear.  She still gets a side-eye from the other groundhogs whenever they happen to cross paths.  She knows she will hibernate alone in her burrow far from the others.

She wonders: was it worth it all?  When all is said and done, will the moments of joy in her life outweigh the pain?

But sometimes, in the distance, she thinks she sees youngsters with wings.  Mere kits, but they lift themselves into the sky, evidently having escaped the cruel strictures of the grey-muzzles.  Though not born of her body, nor her kits' bodies, she sees those with the ability and will to fly as her own young, and she rejoices to imagine that a new generation may come that will escape the shackles of the past.

Her time is past.  She will never fly.  The winter will claim her, if not this one then the next.  But if there are young of her heart that know the freedom she has always longed for, maybe some part of her soul will fly with them.  Maybe she will know some small measure of peace when the Dark Mother comes to claim her.

Dear groundhog.
I am saddened to hear that sol is not as warming as used to be, and that the days appear to be shortening as winter starts to encroach in the northern climes. Make your burrow deep and warm, and rest a while, cocooned by the sweet earth of the forest. Let the scent of pine sink in, the sweet must of leaves, the damp coolness chill your breath, and dream of flying. Dreaming has more power than sol, and warms the darkest corners, enjoy watching the kits fly high, and the wonder if it will be too far, as that is the role of a parent. We are all the odd ones, those chosen to be strong enough to stand like trees in a forest of beautiful and noble people, stand firm and deep rooted, in our own self knowledge.
It was so lovely to hear and have you here, it is such a shame that my cooking was so bad that you could fair struggle to find anything for days that your stomach would bear. But we laugh and joke whilst firefly dance, and sit with quiet in remembrance. Sweet joy has been hard to find this year, as have all the finer herbs, and my hope had been that the bitterness was a little more balanced - it seems my palate has lead me astray once again.
We are never alone here, although the silence may be crushing, there will always be an elf, or faerie, watching quietly by, even when we are asleep. My view is tainted, by my sol, and my light is in the darkness, my friend. I shall be watching, waiting and listening of news, of your first stirrings of spring, whilst we beckon the depths of winter darkness.

Rest well.

Bear.

Ps. Must dash the cubs are causing a ruckus.

I'm a Stegosaurus. I may look rather silly and derpy most of the time, and I could probably eat my way through much of the undergrowth with the kind of appetite I have. I'm generally pretty easygoing, but do something to set my off and you will receive a swift tail-spiking.

I'm just wandering around munching on ferns for now. Oh, and rawr.

The dormouse, hearing something lumbering through the forest, pop her head out from the nest she keeps above the fairy's door and throws a painted acorn at the stegosaurus.

The keening grows, and in the silence.
Fills to fever pitch.
Little will contain the yearning, nothing will relieve that itch or craven space
Where desire and love and hate and pain fall,
Red.
To fall upon the earth, and once more meld
A bond and tie to the primal cast in iron bound
The seeking, fleeting flitting instant of clarity
And then it's lost again, the silent wail begins
The tidal ebb is done, and rest.
I see the acorn
Ribbons, colours bright contrast with the sullen earth,
the silent tomb of clarity
unbound.

The stegosaurus goes "Derp?" and looks around for the source of the acorn for a few seconds. Seeing nothing obvious, the dinosaur goes back to eating.

Burrow in quiet earthbound home
The chatter, the voices
Seeking
They are looking so I must dig
Deeper fortress bound
The shudder and crumble clatter of ceiling onto earthbound floor
Watch, wait and listen
the stegosaurus roar
Every step a shudder shake
Ripple quietly though bough bends and shimmies
As if a breeze has passed through,
Still they seek the pursuit is gaining, session over times to rest
Once again the bear found keening
Wailing in the hollow nest

At various times in my childhood, I wanted to be a mermaid, witch or fairy, depending on what I had been watching or reading.  I lost my love of the sea when my brother held my head under once too often, so mermaid may not my best option even in a woodland lake.  The thought of being a naiad in a warm, moonlit pool is nice, though.  Being a witch might be nice too, though my body might put off the other witches during our nude rituals in the forest clearing.   

That leaves fairy.  My mother did say that I was as graceful as a fairy elephant, so perhaps I had some family support in that direction.  My fantasy becomes more realistic if I am a human sized, so wings might be a nuisance in the forest.

It's settled then.  I am a woodland nymph, nimbly (that'll be the day) dancing barefoot in a forest glade.  I really do like walking barefoot in nature (as long as there have been no sheep or cows around -eww!)

DAMN THAT BLOODY STEGOSAURUS! EEEEEEEEWWWWWWW!

Umm... sorry about that. I weigh five tons and have a brain not much bigger than a walnut. I'm not sure how you expect me to figure these things out.

OMG Laughing snot outta my nose, thanks

I am me.
I'm a friend, a daughter, a lover.
I watch and listen.

The bear
Quiet in the safety of its nest
Waits
For what
Is unknown.
It is unknown.
The point of knowing is, and is now past.
The earth waits, whilst new entries into the forest by quiet stealth walk,
They are waiting,
They wait.
And meanwhile the bear, licks old wounds, struggling to remember,
Time and drugs are doing no favours
But then neither is the trap of desire
The struggle gets reflected from the forest, and the lines play crisscross across the stark white of the fur, and yet, yet the cubs, they are unharmed.
The old bear wonders if it is time. The Faerie offered tea an eon ago, a wholesome brew of love and cherish, whilst all around in woodland green the bear did walk, and see them slowly perish in the brown sear of ideology and beliefs held dear.
It is easy to break a bone or two, but a mind is a singularity, and broken, will never be the same old bear.

There can be no return, no healing, but steps forward, stripes worn proud. With silence, rustle, deafening loud. The green incandescent flicker flash of greenery near and far, the quiet love of the precious dear, drawn near. Much though,
Too much though.
See the curl of smoke and smell the incense, love in tending, intended, indeed, intent the creeping growth of forest sparkle, confident.

Not quite torpor,
Or hibernating sleep,
The zombie state clouds and shifts slowly.
And yet the forest sits and waits.
Lonely in its quietude, but deep in the rhythms of life
For living, resting and giving
Succour and bough bent support, free,
Quiet
Loving
Listen to the shoots green that sprinkle around and pop, characters new
Yet to take form, or take thier first walks
And all the while a little faerie cabin sits.
Cool, in the summer heat, waiting. Waiting.
A trace of incense scents the air, but is that memory forgotten
Or the depth of scent of decades past, with fondness freely given.

New creatures all are we on our visit first,
Step out from the shadows of your loving trees, and let the fresh sparkle green of sunlight shimmer off the leaves,
And be your revelation.

So, we have some new folk and some older hands around at the moment, please join us in the forest, it needs music, merriment and laughter - the members of the forest make it a richer place for us all, a sanctuary retreat or re-treat, a place to heal, a place of solace, revitalisation, support, and more than a touch of whimsy. It's also a place for fond rememberings of those who chose the other great struggle. Come on in, the air is fresh, and whilst I enjoy the solitude, as a bear, I'm a lousy custodian- prone to breakages, naps and infrequent lucidity.

Come light a fire, raise a glass, and tell us of your travels, so this saga carries on

Rowan

Thank you for the lyrical inspiration and invitations to welcome the bears from hibernation.  It is early spring in the great NW rainforest with jonquils and other bulbs pushing their shoots to the sunlight.  bright greens and multicolored buds swell with life and the promise of growth.

We begin our plans for forage and journeys beyond to visit family and friends.  Gentle rains and sudden squalls fall from gray skies and the beaches are littered with driftwood. 

Nearly as unpopulated as our Unicorn Forest we welcome the greetings of friends along the many pathways.

Happy trails to you

An old friend flies quietly over the older unicorn forest.

Remembering, days of old.

Sh'e visits sometimes.

It is h'er way.

Love and blessings from Satinjoy, to those who remember, and those new ones who search for their truth.