She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.  
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.