The Spirit of the Woods

I wander the paths of an endless forest and see her walking beside me: the woman who fell in love with a serpent. Her smile and quiet grandeur calm my searching heart. The boundary between here and the heavens begins to dissolve.

I keep waiting for her to step out of the trees and into the human world. I look for traces of her among the living. Perhaps I am trying to confine her to something fleeting, when her freedom belongs to eternity.

At night, I glimpse her again in the shifting shadows along the forest path. I think I must be mad to have fallen in love with someone who does not exist. But does she really not exist? Something inside me refuses the thought. The moving branches of the spruce trees seem to answer. What I feel is real.

Caught by that vision, I hurry home to put the feeling into a language I understand. A candle glows in the window. I draw because I do not know where else to place this longing. Making art lets me reach towards that elusive love and loosen the mist of separation. The spirit of the woods, the one I love, begins to take form. She reaches beyond the sheet of paper, extending her branches into a colourful canvas.

As the painting comes alive, I see the forest queen dancing with life itself. Distant clouds part, and I glimpse a forest palace within me. This imagined country feels closer each time I recognise myself in nature. In the spirit of the woods, I see the living presence we share. She brings us together, reminds us of our roots and offers strength from the ancient forest's libraries.

She is a poet writing a poem that never ends. We borrow a few lines and carry them home to weave into the stories of our own lives.

Sometimes, walking through the forest, the feeling is almost overwhelming. I have fallen in love with nature itself, with something I cannot grasp or take by the hand. I can only find comfort in its company and share its silence. Whenever I lay my soul bare, it gives me a kiss of inspiration and draws me into its embrace of needles. I walk home happy again, carrying another of its patterns that words cannot quite describe.