Dear Paper—
where were you when you first began?

“I was born here in this Appalachian wood—
I come from this forest, from the mountain vale,
out of the dark-green leaves, branches, and the snow—
I know I am a child of the thin place too.
In the way your roots are a part of the earth,
but not the earth—in the way I am the blood
of your raw wood, yet I only feel your awe
when the hazel-eyed girl strokes her dark words on me.”

Paper, who told you the way of the thin place?

“She whispered to me through her red-berry lips—
‘Paper, you are a thin place too, like the trees.’
She kissed each letter as each letter kissed me,
her hands bound the red twine over memory.
She comes from the thin place too, from this forest,
and the mountain vale—she’s a bridge between worlds.
Out of the dark-green leaves, branches, and the snow—
she casts her spell here and knows she is home too.”

You have spoken true, and understand the way
of the thin place—where you were when you first began.
Now, Paper, you are free—

Sincerely, the Tree.