drown my sorrow, no tomorrow; anyone

[hickory]

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

Strong as hell but not hickory rooted

She is the last.
She’s known this, has always known this – but each year pounds this fact home, as she meets ages none of her forefathers did. It is a luxury, to grow old, and even as the years speckle across her muzzle, she does not bemoan it. It’s an honor.
The tree is tall now, though she doesn’t visit it as often. It took root on its own.
The names are still there, her linage made lasting in the soft bark of the hickory tree. The seals. They will be there – she hopes – when she is dead and gone, a gravestone.

There are still flowers in her hair, though she is too old for such foolishness. She doesn’t care. She likes the freshness of it; she likes the scent of them, the bouncing blossoms giving off their perfume. In her hair, the flowers are always blooming.

There is a name that is not carved in the tree, because the tree is a memorial, and she thinks - hopes the girl isn’t dead. There is a name, like dirt, a handful of fresh earth.
The kind of thing plants grow from. The place they thrive.
There is a name that sometimes crosses her lips, when she murmurs to herself (she is the only one she talks to, for days or weeks on end).
There is--
There is a mare before her, dark as a shadow, and maybe she is just a shadow.
There is a name.
“Loam.”

hickory

i found the post #stalker