A light wind rustles the tree branches that surround the clearing, while the doe nuzzles at your open hand and the woodsman stands strong behind you, centered among the thronged halo of thirty deer, the ringed security of the forests ancient elders, who for centuries, if not millennia, have trodden and traversed the very trails you ambled on.
You stand, eyes closed and draw a deep relaxing breath, slowly letting the air escape before gradually opening your eyes, allowing this pre-Raphaelite inspired romance to flood your senses.
You hear the warm low voice of the woodsman as he begins to openly share his perspective: “If you were here in the humid, scented dark, I’d tell you what the moths whisper with their wings when they brush against the moonlight.” he ventures, his voice low and hypnotic, seeding an ethereal fantasy deep within your imagination.
“And if you were here,” he continues “I’d show you where the wet green moss makes love to the ragged stones, and I’d carve your breath into the rain clouds and watch the sun set them on fire at dusk.”
You feel the forest, the air, moist, organic, alive, and you sense its energy surrounding you, brushing against you, looking to find a way through the layers of your outerwear and lick at the heat that’s growing within you.
You sense the inhibitions that wrangle in your mind, slowly untether, allowing any coherent thoughts to slip freely from their mooring and dissolve in a swelling sea mist, as now your dream state rolls up onto your shoreline, sensual and seductive, and envelops you in new sensations.
The muscles in your legs no longer care to support you, your balance unstable, you tip your head heavenward and feel the firm chest of the woodsman receive you, his work worn arms reaching round you to support you and relieve you of your lightening weight.
Your green eyes, slowly closing, lit with a red-orange firebrand glow, where the sun screams to see its rays reach you faster than a thought could ever travel.
Imagery invoking, projecting against the amber glow, trapped behind your eyelids, you picture a glade of green grass stretching out around you, peppered with an array of brightly colored wild flowers, the abundance of nature flooding your awareness.
This abundance is yours, in every detail, even the leaves on the trees, too many to count, knowing how even if you started, you could never finish, and if you returned in the fall and tried to collect them, there would always be more, their prosperity, universal and limitless.
This forest is yours, the thought washes over you, persuading you to accept the truth. Your head eases back, resting easily in the crook of the woodsman’s left shoulder, the warmth of the sun soothing the exposed tender of your exposed neck.
You sense the rugged, handsome features of his heavy stubble, his russet-ashen beard, held only inches from your cheek; finding an echo of the colors you’ve seen in the deep Roe fur that you still feel, soft and warm, and rubbing gently against the uncoiled fingertips of your open hand.
You sigh and let go, sensing a dream of loose cotton, the light fabric softly flapping, floating, billowing around you. A dreamers vision of yourself, a forest queen, with daisies chained, wild flowers woven in your hair.
A white summer solstice dress cascading from your shoulders, natures love caressing and covering every inch of your body, while your woodsman holds you in his arms, his strength rooted to the very soil beneath your feet.