She loved him once in fields of thyme,  
Where lilacs bloomed and stars would climb.  
His laughter danced like honeyed rain,  
Till fate slipped in with death’s refrain.  


A chalice shared, a toast too late—  
The poison whispered threads of fate.  
His lips went pale, his breath ran thin,  
While terror bloomed like dusk within.  


She wept not loud, but deep and wide,  
A hollow echo none could hide.  
They said, “Move on,” but roots were sown—  
Not in the earth, but in her bone.  


She left the town with silent grace,  
To vanish in the forest’s face.  
Where shadows sang and moss would creep,  
She found a way to grieve and keep.  


Among the bark and loam and dew,  
She studied spores and learned what’s true—  
That fungi heal as much as harm,  
And even rot holds sacred charm.  


She bred the light from darker strains,  
Tamed bitter molds with patient chains.  
Each cap and stem, a whispered prayer,  
To spare another love from care.  


In caves aglow with violet light,  
She worked through every endless night.  
Her fingers stained with ink and dust,  
Her heart still clutched in quiet trust.  


The villagers would seek her hand,  
With children sick or failing land.  
She gave them tinctures, taught them names—  
Of ghostly morels, golden flames.  


But still at dusk, she'd sit alone,  
Upon a stone now overgrown.  
She'd trace his name in spore and rhyme,  
And wonder if she’d beat the time.  


For love, once lost, she could not save,  
But vowed to mend what poison gave.  
A widow not of rings, but will—  
The girl who made the forest still.  


Mushrooms bloomed where sorrow grew,  
A garden built from love so true