The Sorrow of Wild Flower

She lives where light filters like forgotten prayers,

through cathedral spires of cedar and pine.

A cabin of moss, a hearth of ash and smoke,

beneath the hush of endless green.

The forest cradles her in its shadowed hands,

a gentle captor, ancient and unknowable.

She speaks little,

her words stored in jars like fireflies—

for no one comes to hear them flicker.

Each morning, she rises with the fog,

wraps silence around her shoulders,

and steps barefoot into the hush.

The wildflowers nod as she passes,

familiar as breath,

fragile as the dreams she dares not speak aloud.

She presses her palm to tree bark,

tracing veins of gulmohar and jamun,

as if they might echo her pulse—

as if the forest might remember

what she herself has begun to forget:

a name whispered once with tenderness,

a mother’s song,

the shape of another’s smile.

At dusk, she carries the forest into sleep.

Her dreams are woven from its silent deep:

the cool press of moss, the scent of damp earth,

the steady sigh of wind through ancient girth.

In slumber, the trees become her watchful kin,

their branches a cradle she rests within.

No words are needed, only the forest's hum,

a quiet comfort when the real day's done.

Loneliness is not loud.

It moves like roots—slow, unseen,

curling deeper into the dark.

It teaches her to wait

without knowing what for.

Even in sleep, the forest claims her sight.

She dreams of roots that intertwine with hers,

of leaves that whisper secrets only she discerns.

Sometimes, a clearing opens, bright with sun,

but always, the ancient trees stand,

a boundary she understands.

No other face reflects in dew-kissed leaves,

just her own, a solitary form that grieves.

Sometimes, she imagines the world beyond the trees—

the distant hum of towns,

the smell of street bread,

the tangle of laughter spilling from windows.

But the thought frightens her,

like sudden light in a cave.

Yet, sometimes, a tremor through the earth

speaks of a different hunger, a new birth

of sound, a growl that isn't bear or storm.

A metallic scream, tearing the forest form.

In her dreams, the towering spires fall,

great wounds appearing, answering a distant call

of plunder. She wakes with the chill of steel,

a dread that the forest's heart might soon unpeel.

Yet, in the deep of night, the forest shifts,

becomes a pathway to a softer truth.

She dreams of laughter, echoing through trees,

not her own, but shared, a sweet release.

A hidden path reveals a distant fire,

faces gathered, free from all her dire

quietude. She reaches out, almost there,

before the sun pulls her back to forest air.

These fleeting visions, gentle, bittersweet,

leave her waking with a hollow, aching beat.

Hope is a slow bloom,

petal by hesitant petal.

It takes the shape of anticipation—

a stranger on the path,

a letter tucked beneath a stone,

a dream that stays with her even after waking.

Her dreams are wild, like seeds cast on the breeze.

Sometimes, the forest parts, and she can seize

a flicker of a face, a whispered name,

a hand outstretched, a softly burning flame.

But then the branches tangle, dense and stark,

obscuring pathways, leaving her in dark

confusion, searching for what disappeared.

The promise lingers, beautifully feared.

But with hope comes its shadow:

anxiety,

like wind that rattles shutters in the night.

What if no one ever comes?

What if someone does?

She knows the forest too well to trust easily—

every beauty here bears its thorns.

The fox wears hunger beneath its charm,

the rose hides teeth in its perfume.

Even the river—so kind in song—

has claimed what it cannot return.

But a new fear coils, colder than the deep,

as whispers on the wind begin to creep

of giants that devour, with gaping maw,

the ancient sentinels, defying forest law.

The scent of cut wood, alien, sharp, and raw,

carries on currents she can almost draw

into her lungs, a poison in the air.

The silent promise of a world laid bare.

Still, she plants wildflowers.

She sings to seeds and listens to the rain.

She lets herself believe, sometimes,

that soft things endure,

even here.

But her hands instinctively clench the soil,

a fierce, protective anger at the toil

of those who do not understand its worth.

A silent guardian of her forest home, her earth.

And in the quiet between heartbeat and leaf fall,

she waits—

a girl of soil and sorrow,

a wildflower herself,

bending but not breaking,

rooted in both longing and fear,

and now, a growing, silent, fierce despair

for the forest heart, she vows to hold with care,

blossoming where no one thought to look.

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