Beneath the cap of crimson thread,
Where silent, drifting spores are shed,
The forest breathes in gold and grace,
Enchanted patterns trace her face.
Born of the woods, the moss, the loam,
She guides the wandering traveler home,
A quiet soul, a dream entwined,
Where magic and the wild aligned.
I'm sorry, forgot, those uploaded images did earlier, and prompts are lost...but there are some images here with the same prompt that I uploaded earlier...