The frantic forest floor,
it was so cluttered once,
every rustle was news, unsilenceable.
Leaves fell, animals tracked through the dappled shifting sunlight, and it was all important.
We saw it all - all that we saw, down here.

What breeze made it through was as consuming as any first season,
and gazing up, the trees all looked so tall, so solid and sure of their purpose.
Who of us ever thought that they might not be,
or that they'd so filtered what we caught of beyond?

I look back down now, and it looks very dark.. I don't even remember breaking through, just that the light and wind had changed.
I don't remember a lot.
And from here I can't even see that floor, or what else might be down there. It almost scarcely matters, but for who else might be growing down there,
while they burn so cold and slowly
that they'd never know the full pain, or the difference.

I blink:
it's bright now, and there's so much that's so different from all I imagined. Those tall trees stand different heights, their limbs spread broad in different directions - did I realise that I could too?
Scarred and hollow trunks lean and twist every which way, supporting and collapsing, rotting,
charcoal stretching higher still,
blooming, swaying, whispering in their breeze,
and each with their own view of the forest,
of this sun slowly sinking away from us all, beyond again;

and maybe too,
that quiet, still, forgotten space,
shadowed on the forest floor.