Forest Magic

 Oh for a thousand breaths of forest air. To sit on a log and wave my feet at the leaves. Dead or alive, they still dance. Oh to live a hundred lives, a thousand years, until eternity and I grow sick of one another. The sunlight speckles the soil, fighting the shadows but never so well as to cease to be special. Scurrying squirrels refuse to pick sides, yet chatter with chipmunks about the benefits and strategies of each.


Magical morning passes to acquiescent afternoon, who allows effervescent evening. But midnight, midnight is mournful. When the earth has fled and the fairies and sprites have reminded me of their existence, then will I breathe deeply. When the trees shake their tired limbs and our foreign world is coated in paint of a different hue. But I don't join my friends when they snag their snouts in the stars to sing, for I know that white globe to be where the earth has gone, and I don't want it back.


I will walk with a silent tread that only the flowers with their tilting ears can hear and forget how to breathe.