Soul tree.

Darting green inquisition.
Bitten bottom lip.
Red wave.
Clenched hand gripped or
guided by an inner voice.

Searching for a soul tree
amongst a tightly thatched
sea of Pine.

An arched Willow bow,
taught quivers firing
at a heart shaped needle.

Leaves brushing and Silver Birch flaking against our skin,
exquisitely for seven years.
Strangers in a familiar forest of soft scents, insight and passion.

The search continues as windmills, streams and lakes pass.
This tree cannot be found.
Trees cannot move,
only sway in the wind or be cut down.

A fruitless search.
There is not a single tree.
We believe our rings of growth belie the truth.

Our truth.
We are the forest, the wind, the earth, the interwoven roots.
Catching each other if we fall.
The forest still stands.