Book of Eucalypt

The words left first.
Then the paths.
Quiet places within my mind slipped beneath the mountain,
their names swallowed by stone.

I wandered there until the forest found me.
You were already waiting.

I breathed in the oak and the lichen.
The breath of rain held in bark
as the fire crackled through our time.

Your hands closed over mine,
rough with age,
warm with memory.

Ribbon wound around our wrists,
around all that had endured
without asking to be seen.

The knot settled without resistance,
as though it had been waiting
through every season I had yet to live.

Your thumb rested between my brows,
anointing as whispered prayer
danced around us like firelight.

Deep beneath skin,
something ancient leaned towards the light
pushing through bone and sinew–
the slow ache of antlers returning.

The forest drew close.
Branches gathered overhead.
The earth listened.

Your voice moved through me
like distant thunder
rolling beneath the hills.

Priestess.

No echo, only stillness opening wider.
Years folded inward as each offering every made
through every change of season,
with each step taken through rain;
questions of doubt or silence
came to rest at your feet.

You stood before me,
Antlers rising into the green dark.
Shoulders broad as the old oaks
encapsulating your mythology.

The whole wood seemed to settle against your back.

I stood within the reach of your shadow,
held inside a silence older than fear.

The ribbons rested against my wrists.
Your word settled beneath my breasts.
Somewhere beneath my brow, bone remembered.

Tied together was the quiet certainty
of the Hunt answering its own horn
as you welcomed me home.