I linger near the edge of the woods, not yet satisfied enough to return home. Surely, there must be some like me, on the other side, waiting to explore. What would I like to be welcomed with? Something, surely, though I didn’t think of bringing anything with me before this very moment. I suppose I’ll have to make do.
The woods are a bounty, even this far away from their heart, and I whisper a soft thanks for each morsel I find. I set out a spread in the style of my mother, mushrooms and berries spread out on bits of fabric kept in my bag for this very reason, a wooden bowl filled with a floral tea, fresh petals floating on its surface. It is lovely looking, welcoming, and I hover above it all, sitting lightly in a tree branch, waiting for a guest.
I do not think about how ominous this would seem to any passers by. In fact, I do everything in my power to not think about it, not after I’ve put so much work into setting it up. It will simply be a welcome surprise, and whoever comes across it will be grateful. (I also, very pointedly, do not think about how ominous that little thought is.
Tarasha
the adnascentia of my soul will crack the earth
