Thanks to all readviewers!
Prompt: Write from the perspective of an inanimate object.
I was oak, once. Ash, too, and willow. I suppose I still am. The sap is not yet dried in my pith, and while it lasts I can recall my first life.
Green light, warm rains, long sleep through cold, a slumbering existence before the roar, and not long after, a request from Her that I share part of myself. I was three, then, and She was one, and came in succession to each. She sang over each given branch of me, so that the bark peeled cleanly away and the twigs left behind no knots, and I was made straight and smooth. Through the forest She carried me, to a clearing where two of me were sunk upright in the ground and the third bound across them.
Something shifted in me. I was no longer three but one, and that one was something new and wondrous. A chink, a chasm, whispered some deep knowledge.
A door.