Woodlore

"Here comes the songs of the Mother, earthbound melodies woven together like a storm in spring. Hear them-the storytelling trees, the struggling soil of old, the loving leaves above the breaking branches, and the wailing creeks that dried its throat out of grief. See them, in this parade they made for you. The folklores they whispered, and the feet that they welcomed. The love they proclaimed, and the fall that tormented them. The mourning they did the next morning, lamenting what once was unbeknownst to death and eternal history. A disco ball with pieces containing their own shape and reflections of what is born in the past, lives in present, and will linger in the future. A beautifully broken pieces of mirror puzzled together to reflect not only one reflection of emotion, and who owns them, but a manifold of it. The wonder, the misery, the bliss, the pain, and the eruption sang by you, or someone you know. By someone you will know, someone you want to know, someone who wants to know you, and someone you don't know and don't want to know at all. Out there, rivers became seas and seas grow into oceans; ships sinking and sailing, limbs swimming and drowning. But a shore of mercy will appear, with thousands of sleeping seashells to tell you once you wake them, to sing to you once you knew-you'll be out of the woods. With your gathered woodlore, you transform."