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 ( Read more... )

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 ( Read more... )

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, ( Read more... )