The Weeping Dryad
Lest you disturb the knitted night shawl of forest calm that enshrouds her as the tears flow- it is best not to make a sound. Better to make Stillness. Make some Quiet for her— for the sound of her sobbing breaths.
This is her sacred moment of woe and the forlorn tree onwhich she throws herself is here to share it with her. One such as I would be tempted to come closer but it is best to keep a distance and to admire the way the moonlight caresses her skin in sheens and sparkles that make her gleam like a pearl in this great clamshell of leaves, mist, and darkness. What ails her to collapse thus upon her Willow familiar? Has she lost a sister Dryad to a mortal's axe? Or has some God or Goddess been Cruel to her as they inevitably are?
To watch her now- is HER gift to you. Feel this The Ache with her, The heart-pounding curiosity, and The heartbreaking need to soothe her.
Her hair spills down across her shoulders like little Willow Whips grown too long for their trunk. There is the shudder of her heartbroken breath mirrored in the sadness of her heaving breasts and ribs as her hands feel the rough black bark below them and her tears kiss the sap within the great and sad organism.
These are some of her conjurings within you as she pulls out your empathy. Be tormented but be weary of this little tree spirit. Make the wrong sound and she will vanish. Take stock of your good intentions for she may know what drives them better than you- a mere mortal- would.
It doesn't matter what the night air brings- be it biting cold or sweltering heat. Nor does it matter the whispers of wind through the sweet drooping leaves. There are favorite moments of comfort here- like the smell of damp earth and other such petrichor that has a way of telling her that the dewy world has wept with her. What a beautiful tree to be bonded to- such tearful understanding, boughs, and branches cascading all around her. She may be tired or saddened but her Willow is there- holding her in a wall of drooping branches that gently billow as if they were about to scoop her up and carry her towards the moonlit clouds. Let the weeping dryad be bathed in the eternal melancholy of her sweet familiar.
According to near-by-village lore- if you want to pass through this region without a curse, a prank, or an injury- you must first appease the strange wants of her and her ilk. I speak of the Strange wants of the forest Nymphs. Shy little things they are. Shy and also Wild... and Wild things they ask. Beastly things like her asking to play a game of tag in the forest, or to teach her cards, tell her a ghost story, to lie together in the moonlight, to build laurel crowns, swim in the dark pond, climb a large tree, the try-not-to-laugh-game, the howling game- the two day fasting game, the four day starving game, the abstinence game, all of these it is claimed have come to pass onto many a so-and-so who came upon her tree -according to village lore. And how will this shy spirit respond to each traveller? Will she be mischievous? Loving? Curious? She may just ask for a serenade. If the moon is shining brightest. Or she may ask that you both stand as tall and still as trees- looking into one another's eyes... for an hour. Or she may ask for your mortal kiss. Ah, there is no passion like the kiss of one with not long on this Gaia of an Earth.
And would you believe me if I told you- she can gauge a lover's lifespan just from a single kiss.
You would do well to remember yourself lest you be pulled closer. Best not anger or hurt her. For just as the Gods and Goddesses may visit sadistic fates upon many a Nymph- so too may the sweet thing afflict YOU with a cold unexplainable bitterness or a sense you may feel of un-belonging that never leaves you.
Perhaps she weeps now simply because she loves her Willow and why not? Why does the Willow always weep? No reason. It doesn't need one. That is why you can cry with it and the Willow will always understand: You just need someone who weeps with you.
Aye it is a conundrum belonging to the man who looks on her- loves her- yearning to take care of her. Alas he cannot- sad is the bastard who dotes on the tearful goddess. She seems to cry out for help, but he learns the ways of a dryad- she is not her self always saying exactly what she means so much as exactly what she feels.
So he plays with her in the forest and he sees her laughing and raucous. Alas- then she leaves him and he scours the woods in the dark forest of the unknown... until the shroud of the night takes him. All alone now... he weeps upon her tree.
Bring ‘The Weeping Dryad’ Home…
The Original of this Piece is for Sale!
Here is the Print of Her…
And grab yourself “The Weeping Pillow”
Solomon Landerman