In a small corner of the forest under the sweeping stalks of red flowers, 21 met the gaze of her gods - two great suns, the golden of midday heat and the smoldering red radiance of twilit hours. They waited for the little deer to collect herself and finally, when she had settled within the center of their radiant circle, one addressed her (she could not tell which.)
    "Child, there is a brother of yours in need of you - should you choose to help him."
    "Of.. of course! Who needs my help?"
    "Well, that is precisely the matter. His name is Seed, do you know one by that name, perhaps?" The two beings looked down at her expectantly, really already knowing the answer and only asking to humour the bewildered creature lying between them.
    "I do."
    "What is he like?"
    21 fidgeted against the great flanks of her gods and wracked her brain. She hadn't seen that stag in such a long time, and even then only on fleeting occasion. "To be honest," she began, "I only really know him through his works. He is our forest's poet. Our beloved poet! I'm nowhere near as graceful with words as he is. I'm afraid, really, to say too much about him. How can my words ever do justice to a poet?"
    "Every word you could spare would be quite appreciated, I think." The two smiled with some gentle amusement at the old doe's expense.
    "Well.. I don't know how he does it, it must be a gift. He pulls such common words, out of the air it seems, and creates these wonderful stories out of them. He creates life as if he was a god himself! Not real life, I mean.. it's in my mind. When I listen to his stories it feels as though they are really playing out, right in front of my eyes. But it's not only that - sometimes, I feel as though I've become part of that life too, as one of the characters or even a part of nature, whatever it is he's written about. It's some magic he has, I don't know how he is able to do those things. That's all I can think of to say about him... will he be alright? Have I told you enough? You should ask his friends, they will know more than I do."
    "That is all we need of you right now," the gods said simply, but their small warm smiles seemed to lift some worry off the doe's weary shoulders. "Keep him in your thoughts, ."
    Then 21 woke up, in her bed of red flowers in the corner of the wood. The gods had left her side but the poppy patch beamed with little suns, speckled light through the fluttering leaves. The old deer made a reminder for herself to keep that dear poet Seed in her thoughts, whatever trouble he was going through. Beneath an old brown tree, she traced his name into the soil: