Can I Bask In The Meadow?

Can I bask in the meadow of her sunlit shade breathe in the musk tomorrow that holds her golden name. Can I walk in her garden? Along her interwoven rivers of pain, where the surface of a woodland mark's a hollow earthen grave. Can I fly and hoot like an owl beneath lichen star-lightened eaves till the clawing hands of ancient-winters claw back the remainder of her red rowan leaves. Can I kneel at that altar? The alter of her voice when all but the darkling wilderness calls- will our hearts echo? Rejoice-rejoice-rejoice.