[I]
Do not stray into the dreamy centre of a faery wood
and never ever partake of what they might offer,
for the ways of their wild worlds are coded therein.
And if you wish to return, to that place half-forgotten,
caution would be your wisest call, while you deepen ...
How many lifetimes will you pass through,
before you come to find yourself in peril?
To be here, you have let go, of all you know, to be true.
So faint, you are now a butterfly on the pond of her pupil,
where the wood has grown your heartbeat into its fibre.
Her skin did not shine that way, without reason,
but it is within this dream, where you must not flounder.
Before you wandered close enough to destabilise,
she has seen you approaching in crystals,
and your form in shadows across all the streams.
Have you noticed that she does not sleep?
How her skin glows clear and pale lily white?
She was still and observant, a blue wren, on a dark twig.
This is how she saw you, a human who passed this way.
Her snowy hands will reach for your cheek, your forehead,
your new eyes are opening, you will be lulled into sleep,
knowing it is only in autumn that hibernation takes root.
