A Dream Beneath the Fragrant Pines

I dream…

The door of my home stands closed before me: interlocking teeth of wood and metal, bared and barring me from the path I know must lie beyond. I reach out a single languid, lazy hand and push against it. With the creak of ancient, resigned hinges, it gives way…

I step into the forest…

The pine trees seem to stretch forever against the hazy, unseen sky: their lower branches bare; their weathered bark as warm as weathered hands; their needles forming and interwoven latticework of fragrant green far, far above my head and a carpet of sharp, forgiving umber velvet beneath my eager feet.

The birds and insects call out to one another through the space between the trees. A warm breeze whispers its secrets across the forest floor. The sun sinks low and paints the dusty forest haze with its subtle tones of gold. The bracken curls about itself with apprehension.

The day itself hangs in the balance…

The thunder rolls…