Stitched in time, her fragile features blend with the bark, nestled in succulent vine crevices and inching ivy. The breeze beckoned the day she laid among these ancient forest petals.

Relenting, swept on a gold and crimson leaf-tide to this shadowy spot of great branches, she let go.

Now, birds see the oddness of her curves melting into the furrows, and gaze at her features, so delicate with beauty.

Squirrels scamper across her body, and firefly’s sail near her eyes, seeking the memory of her soft voice to croon a lullaby and soothe them to slumber.

“What brought you to this place?” The eagle asks, swooping above the verdant glade. But, she doesn’t, cannot say. She is voiceless, silent as a cat slinking.

Even the sparrows and wood-stars — timber’s carpet — can’t hear her sighs or catch the notes she sings deep inside the tree rings where dreams reside.

Copyright © 2019 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved

Independent content creator, ghostwriter, author mental health advocate, and poet.

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