The child of the forest

Having spent his life among branches, it was little wonder that when John built his home he drew on trees for inspiration. He remembered the dappled warmth of sunlight, and inwrought the windows with iron fronds. Recalling the muffled patter of rain on some distant canopy, he tiled the roof with moss and driftwood. He waited for a storm, and let greedy lightning forks strip banisters from oaky carcasses. He combed the heavy, heady earth for doorknobs.

The foundations he dug deep into the ground, with a shudder of gratitude, because he had always had a dreadful fear of heights.

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