Forest of Memory

Is a forest still a forest when only but a grove's worth of trees remain intact?
Is a forest still a forest when fires have ravaged the trees to ash down to the very roots?
Is a forest still a forest when only the mother of dryads remains to walk through the echoes of its ghosts?

"She is the earth, and I am the sky."

I held a hand tonight.... and for the first time in centuries, I was sorry that gloves have become my habit. I held a hand, and felt the roots of what I had thought were ghostly trees in a forest of memory.

It was the perfect place. Alone, in the dark - our feet in the soil, a tree to lean on, a smudged circle beside us.

I had no words, though the hand I held clearly expected them. Some profound statement would have been appropriate - some prayer of thanksgiving, or a dance or timbrel of joy - anything... but all I could think to speak of was regret.

"I tried to save them..... I tried.... but they would not be convinced."

Centuries.
Centuries I have held on to that regret.
Centuries I have carried with me the guilt of saving only myself from the fires.
Centuries I have held deep inside me the memory of the trees that stand no more.

The ash grove, how graceful, how plainly tis speaking,
the harp wind through it playing has language for me.
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking
a host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends of my childhood again are before me,
each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden its leaves rustle o'er me,
the ash grove, the ash grove again alone is my home.</i?

Oh lovely forest of ghosts, roots of ash - oh cemetery of dryads - tonight did I find myself out of your lonely forest of ethereal timbers. Tonight, in the sky, did I find the ash grove again.

And still, I have no words. Still, there is only the hand I held, and the small bit of earth it left behind on my glove like a whisper of the forest that is no more.