fallen fruit is all rotten in the middle; loam

[hickory]

Blind and whistling just around the corner
And there's a wind that is whispering something

Strong as hell but not hickory rooted

Forget her name, is what she tells herself, because the mare who smells of earth and life should not exist within her history. The history she has already rewritten – she went into the fire and came out stronger rather than burnt; she is the one who helped stop the world’s ruin. She is the one who ate her own flesh rather than give into the strange demon’s greed.
She is a survivor who was never meant to be such things.

Hope’s like a seed, long-buried, and it’s not a thing she means to nurture, but the way she recalls the mare’s dark eyes and the way she said her name, well – the seed grows.
She tries to distract herself, she grows flowers, vines, creates impossible meadows of exotic flowers not meant for the environment, they only last days (sometimes hours) before they wither and die. She does not mind. They are a distraction and nothing else.
The tall grass flattens before her, as if she is Noah parting the red sea. It’s a useless show of power, but it keeps her busy, this manipulation, the creation and destruction of plants.
(The only thing she keeps alive is the hickory tree. The one where she carved their names. The one that reminds her of who she is – or, who she is supposed to be.)
Again, she tells herself the mantra: Forget her name.

hickory