autumne

Once upon a time, there was a Door. And the girl who was a tree felt her roots beyond the (dead) (living) wood of the Door, and stepped out into the biting wind of the winter through it.

Time passed, as it always does. The seasons came and went, and so goes the tapestry of life. And she smiled, and hid, as always, from the attentions of men, for she loved her ever-growing trees and wished not for another to take their place.

But hiding served only to make her more desirable, and word of her beauty reached a god called Vertumnus.

So goes the tapestry of life.

It is possibly not entirely wise to spend so much time out in the woods now that Pan is here, but Pomona cannot really help herself. She needs the acquaintance of the trees here, she thinks, because the small plants in her room aren't enough.

And sometime, though she is not certain of when, she developed a Plan. If pressed, she would admit is not a good plan, exactly, and it is only half-formed at best, but it is something, and that is surely better than nothing.

Since Pan is here, she reasoned, and she cannot do anything about that, and she has become rather too fond of talking to some of the people in the bar to spend her time in her room and she simply cannot stay away from the outdoors, she could do with a disguise. And since Cubefall, she knows what it is like, being a cat, and could- make it a sort of secondary form if she wished, with a little help from her tree, yes?

This is why she can be found lying on the ground, eyes shut, holding onto as much connection to her tree as she has with the help of the forest around her and attempting to remember precisely what being a cat was like.

Time passes, as it is wont to do.

She glides through her garden like a queen, settling the trees' quiet disputes {their leaves our roots sunshine s p a c e water ), trimming away the dead for the living, and revelling in the walls that enclose her safely away from the world.

And she does not think, not really, not for long, of a sunlight room with its small plants in a bar, because surely they will not be left alone

And she does not think, not really, not for long, of a girl who is a river or the goddess who is never far, or a few moments spent happy there, because she is happy here

And the grass grows, and the late flowers bloom, and she feels in her leaves and drinks from her roots, and it is marvelous, being home at last.

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