Criticisms and cataclysms

The life and times of the Brighid Birch.  That was to be her name.  All at once, it seemed, my world dropped down to zero.  In the void, there was no light.  It was not like the world of shining, distant, diamond-like stars.  It was a world with nothing.  I held onto the birch tree.  She was my friend.  The dreams of the daughter never to be clearly would be my end.  But this was not the only dream death I've experienced.  Brighid was one who was meant to be who wasn't and therefore she became a tree.  My birch.  I have dabbled with the Hawthorne and Oak.  I've held weary Willow's hand.  Juniper jumped into my path and Maple helped me stand.  But my little birch tree is so dear to me.  Aspen, a close cousin, calls her name.  I've heard Chestnut and Beech whittling away the hours with whistling voices.  Pine stands solemnly.  The seeds and leaves bunch around.  The ground is bare for another season, until the May Queen hangs around.   Did the elves hear her in the hedgerow as they said?  She makes no noise when she walks.  The flowering trees all giggle delightedly and that may be the only proof that she is near.  Deer and crow borrow.  It is a fair place to let her live and breathe.  Brighid.