#ForestCore

[theabesimp]

This is where I wanna live with my bf

[happyheidi]

Dogs on shrooms pt 2

via mignonettetakespictures

[pnwander]

I heard it's Superb Owl Sunday.

[lindagoesmushrooming]

Coprinellus disseminatus

[heathen-hands-astro]

Taurus rising ♉️✨️

[fayriequeene]

[mycosprite]

Dripping Bonnet Roridomyces roridus

[fairytaleprincessart]

[sergioguymanproust]

The woods have the power to draw you in ,there’s a wild magnetic field that makes you want to go deeper and deeper .There’s plenty of cases of disappearances of middle age cases and older folks that have some chronic illnesses that go and never come back.Now these are in the majority documented cases but we can’t really say why they were taken .We can speculate for hours and never reaching a consensus.Sad indeed but true .Well, hundreds go missing each year but by who and why?Folks this is nothing new,in may countries where the woods are old ,almost ancient ,trees are old growth ,hunters and mushroom and truffle pickers often report seeing lights floating around and know not to wonder after the sun goes down. Because cryptids do come out ,in France , Spain and Italy the so called Middle Ages are back in a manner of speaking,meaning reports of werewolves and even witches are back ,this being no laughing matter. Some scientists speak of humans not evolving but devolving. What do you think? While city folks scuff of such extravagant notions .As a shaman I do believe these things are indeed happening but as we are too busy making a living,we are ignoring the facts .More in coming postings. Well,if you see anything do report it .Words by Sergio GuymanProust.

sifjar

[mymercyprevailss]

[sleepsforest]

01/19/25

[noseysilverfox]

January 2025

[andulkaphoto]

[hauntedcavallaro]

You reek of violets left to drown, roots tangled in the flooded ground. Your hands are soft with petal-rot, lilac bruises time forgot.

There’s something in you—aching sweet, like honey left too long in heat. The flies adore you, throng and hum, they kiss your wrists, they drink your tongue.

I press my lips against your throat, where ivy claws and blackbirds gloat. Your ribs are thin as weathered bark, your pulse, a ghost in fern-lit dark.

Oh, love, you bloom like something lost, like offerings left out for frost. Like lantern-light on hungry moors, like knocking hands on chapel doors.

And still, I take you, graveyard-born, a wreath of thorns, a vow, a thorn. You reek of violets—aching sweet— and I will kneel. And I will eat.

_ Y. Cavallaro, "Violets"

[rebeccathenaturalist]

I've had way too much indoor time lately. Once this cold works its way through my system I'm getting back out on a trail somewhere. I need ferns and cedar trees and moss and other good things.