The pine smells different down here. The needles are formless, they’ve become dust and earth and feed their sisters anew, breathing life into roots as they push down and out and deeper into the heart of the world. How does the pine smell different? It has a touch of the old world, a touch of rot. Closer to the scent of blood; less fresh, more vital. I come here for the roots, the dark; the mooring, the grounding. I cocoon myself beneath the trees, gently shuffle further and further down. I too am reaching for the heart of the world, spanning eras. Down here this earth has touched the gods. Down here the needles - as they were - saw battles and love stories that ended long ago. And they connect to the air, they still have branches in the now. Here the roots hold the whole world together. A lullaby rumbles low overhead. There must have been flashes too but when? That light will never reach me here, I am insulated from life’s storms. Aware but distant. That fire cannot hurt me. The growls of thunder meet me as a cat might nuzzle my hand while weeping. Gentle and caring but all the ready to bite for a false move. The rumbles grow louder, I vibrate with its power. The water is looking for me, I can hear the raindrops now too. Each one a drumbeat, faster and louder. The roots beg for the water. When it touches me I will have to return to now. It will flood me out. The storm’s precipitate will mingle with my own desperate tears, it will push me up and out and I’ll face the lightning again. The past is so much safer, the dark in the underworld, it has already lived. It has lost and won and while not static, one can move it and move with it. But now is a lightning strike. Now is erratic and angry, and more beautiful but more cruel. It’s okay. I’m ready. I’m here for you, storm.