In the quiet hours of lassitude, between the waking and rising hours of dawn, the soul of this forest yearns to be clasped in the crush of your old wide palms, a visceral map of all the worlds you have touched and healed.

Skin at every arousable tip stretched tight upon these mountains and hillocks pine for the wetness oozing from the music only your parted hungry lips can sing.

The alluring darkness of her secret alcoves and explored caves awaits to be played upon by your nimble, long, calloused fingers that have caressed the softness of many a lovers’ lips.

The feet of her earth aches to be entwined with your downtrodden ones, to infuse your roots with the vigour only her soil could give, even if you have to trample upon her,

again and again.

And somewhere between the beginning, the middle and the end of her terrain, when you have trespassed all her rocks and marsh and pits and lakes, she lies wide open and awake, to have all of yours in her, in union and unison until eternity.

Letting the glaciers of all your unshed tears, hitherto, melt into the river that would make her deltas fertile, as she gives you life, while you sob into the wake of her earthy bosom, the ravine pit of her forbearing arms, the undying throes of your passion and life.