I do so love dandelions; the Twin Gods must be very happy recently, to give us such blessings day after day.


((This has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner. Collect them all!

...I'm sorry. I felt kinda compelled to bump it, just once...))

A poem sits, half-formed in my head: Oh hail to the sun in all of its guises:/ the triumph that sets, the defeat that rises. Tell me, dear forest, pink and violet at your horizons, tinged with the red of poppies and warm hearts: is your sun setting, or rising? I've heard most say sunset, but it feels untrue to me: it is so soft and still, subtle and sweet, that it makes me think of the surrender of dawn.


I woke up and encountered the doe Leeadora. We frolicked for a while, and ran up to the Twin Gods Hill, where she tried -- largely in vain -- to get the devout pelt to merge with her skin for a longer while than such blessings normally last. We also danced and played a bit, before she went -- she has the strangest way of dancing, even for the Forest.


I return again, and wander the Forest alone for a while, meeting up with a fawn and Yorres for a moment, when a thought struck me: I should perhaps go by myself, and play in my favorite patch of flowers. Yorres followed me, and so I ended up frolicking him in that path of flowers, and another, our paces changing easily, like those of the butterfly; we moved like a slow waltz, or bubbly fawns, or somewhere in-between. We took a rest, and arose to go walk towards the ruins.

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There was a sentence I think I maybe should have added; does the poem serve without it? I don't know. There was another sentence like that, but I think the title replaces it well enough.
I wrote this about The Rut, and dear Virgil was my specific muse. I'm sorry if I made it (and him) sound worse than it (and he) is... The start of the last stanza struck me first, in relation to the title and a cut lines, so I had to build that.



((This has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner ))

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I love the snow. There is something about any new face of the forest that brings it a new spring joy, something unexpected and wild. The snow, I love for its strangeness: the tender fragility of the snowflakes, looking so soft and so brittle all at once, each little crystal reminds me of a heart. They're born, they fall a little while, and they melt. And somehow, in the dance of their fall, it isn't sad but wonderous. That in itself, beyond the beautiful lilac color of the lake or the light fog that spreads out across the horizon, turning the world around you into a white bubble, is an amazing part of snow.

I awoke, and ran into the fawn Aleit who I had seen the other day with Virgil. We immediately set to playing by the shores of the lake, Aleit bouncing around, our laughter filling the crisp air in bright mists. Something about the light and energetic movements of him put me in the mind of a kaleidoscope of butterflies, fluttering giddily around their flowers, without a care in the world. Aleit's exuberance reminded me of my own as a fawn, and the bright waters of the lake lured me into trying to teach him one of my favorite tricks, one that many fawns don't seem to know anymore: water-walking. He was a quick study, and soon the two of us were leaping out over the flower-colored waters. Not without mishap: but that is, I suppose, the fate of snowflakes. The water I fell into was brisk, but not too cold; so close to the earth, it retained warmth enough to keep the freeze off of its glistening surface.


Aleit and I set off right away to getting my set back. On the last stage, we began to be joined by others: Quamar, Fay, and Nightshade. The hardest, final part was the pelt, where we cycled though nearly half-a-dozen sleeping deer, as they all either vanished or, in Quamar's case, awoke. Eventually, though, we got it back.

Well, I've been thinking, and I kind of want Seed to have some more friends or otherwise significant relationships. But I'm bad at identifying people and figuring if they want to be friends with me and getting the initiative to hang with people and so on. So... I figure why not ask around?

His bio, for those of you who don't know him, is here.

So, if you're interested in meeting Seed, just post here with your deer's name and picto and some way we could arrange a meeting or generally keep an eye out for when your deer would be online. Or whatever.

Since some stags (and this is largely for stag-players that I'm posting this) are gearing up for The Rut already, I want to make two things perfectly, perfectly clear so there is no confusion.

The first, as most people who know Seed already know is that he's not involved in this. He's not that sort of stag physically or emotionally.

The second is that I don't want stags treating him like he's a part of this. If you need a decent roleplay justification (I kinda would), we could argue that since Seed's gender is entirely a result of his mindset and not his anatomy, he doesn't give off a stag smell, rutting or otherwise, and therefore shouldn't register as a threat to even the most hormonal stag.

I'm sorry if the tone of this came out harsh ^^. I just want to clear this out, to hopefully save Seed and I some trouble and some fights he doesn't care to fight.

I have been stolen by school and personal distasters for the last little while. And now I'm back.

What'd I miss?

I decided to compose this one from a moment from when The Ha -- Clover, I should say -- was saying goodbye to me the other day. And so this is dedicated to her. I think this one is also dedicated, in a less specific way, to all of the deer who have offered me comfort these past few weeks.



((This has been another visit to Seed's Poetry Corner))

((This has been an angsty visit to Seed's Poetry Corner. Go there for less angsty poems.))

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The flowers are all dead. As I sit, among flowers or in the waters before the idol and her ever-streaming tears (who is she missing, in her heart of hearts? Who is she begging she could relive one moment with? Or am I begin silly, subjecting her to my pains?) or beneath the bridge or under the soft singing of the old oak, with some dear comfort or alone, or eating or drinking with Scape, the thought keeps ringing in my head. The flowers are dead. I know it's silly -- even I expected this, inevitable as any winter ever is, even if I neither wanted it nor believed it fully until now. My own dearest one will likely never return. I still love her. I always will. Love without hope is a bitter wind; Love without hope is ice in the soul, stabbing straight through the heart... I miss her. I miss hoping for her. I'm sorry. I'm rambling... I just feel I should say something, but don't know what to say. I'm a poet: it is my instinct and my nature to take the hole in my heart, the thing that eats at the whole of my heart, that bottomless pit that sings and howls and calls me ever closer to its edge... and fill it up with words. I throw words into its depths and see what sticks, try to plumb it out, try to see if there is a bottom to it, or if it is just the great endless maw of infinity. I see the echoes of her everywhere: in the flowers, and the butterflies soft fluttering, so like her eyelashes; I see her in the flow of the river, and in the broadness of its current; I see her in the slow, weeping fronds of the willows; I hear her in the lulling voice of the oak. And everywhere I see the trace of her, the sign that she has been, the sign that she existed there, for a moment... I remember that she is gone; that she will not return in any imaginable future; that the flowers are all dead.