NATURE Poem: The Green Veil, by Wednesdae Reim Ifrach

n the hush where the mycelium dreams,
Beneath soft loam and twilight seams,
There breathes a pulse, damp, low, arcane,
A whisper sung through root and brain.

Mushrooms bloom like tongues of lore,
Wet lips upon the forest floor;
Their spores drift slow in secret rites,
Laced with dusk and appetite.

A raven calls from branch to sky,
Eyes like wells where shadows lie.
They know the names you do not speak,
The ones that twist when you grow weak.

Red fox slips through briar and mist,
A flame with fur, with hunger kissed.
Their step is stealth, their stare, command,
The forest bends beneath their hand.

And there, where cypress leans and sighs,
Where moonlight drowns in dragonflies,
The swamp witch waits in scent and skin,
Their breath a prayer, their gaze a sin.

They stir the air with clove and rue,
With ash and blood and devil’s dew.
No book can cage the charms they weaves,
They rise like smoke from dying leaves.

They speak in moss, in feathered rune,
By serpent coil and swollen moon.
Their hands are mud, their heart is flame,
They love you, nameless, just the same.

So enter soft, or not at all,
The Green Veil hears, the roots recall.
It takes your truth, your ache, your ache,
And gives it back as something wake.

Dark and velvet, wild and deep,
Where secrets grow and bodies sleep.
Nature’s temple, cracked and raw,
The occult mouth, the endless draw.