"Hardly has the request been made, when a heavy stiffness seizes the limbs, the soft chest is embraced by delicate bast, the hair turns to foliage, the arms to branches, the once nimble foot gets stuck in tough roots, the face bears a treetop." (Ovid, Metamorphoses)
Daphne flees from Apollo. I do not flee; on the contrary, I surrender. Of my own free will, I shed the human shell, succumb to temptation -- I become a tree. Bark is the more fitting skin for me. It belongs to my essence. In my decayed arms, fresh rain mingles with sticky resin. A gentle wind makes all my limbs tremble, everything rustles wildly for a moment, a leaf quietly drifts from my forehead. Far, far do my roots stretch, knowing no bounds, knowing no horizon, finding only more earth behind the soil. Their tips repeatedly strike new tips, wildly, indeed almost mindlessly, carving their way through the earth. They do not know thirst for light. Here in the dark, in the tightness, in the depth, here among the worms, the fungi, and all the dead matter of the forest -- I know it well -- here I am completely myself.
2.
Rough fabric rubs against my skin, cool leather encloses my arms -- from afar, the pommer and tabor sound. My hair falls softly as I hurry over the stony valley to the forest. The roots solidify my path. In my thoughts, your solid body. Soon I will be with you, bringing you clove and angelica, to stay with you.
