This is the forest of our dreams.
The trees, once young, play Kings and Queens.
They protect the wistful gurgles of the stream, always in constant shadow,
Who never breaks her flow of chatter.
“Have you heard the blackbirds?” She asks.
I have heard them but do not reply.
This is the forest of your words.
Your stories wrap themselves around brittle bark and hollowed limbs,
Murmuring snatches of long-lost playground affairs to any saplings who care to listen as the old
oaks once did.
“Eyes as blue as cornflowers, and skin as bright as snow,” you sing to them.
The little ones have no stories yet.
This is the forest of her fears.
Golden locks will not light the way for her on these paths,
Each branch a gnarled hand stretching out its fingers to touch, to feel something so precious.
She had always been scared of sharp corners, so you said.
They built her a round prison in the tallest tower.
This is the forest of my heart.
Those fragile cocoons you see hanging in the redwood attics
Are where I seal away the melodies I cannot remember but do not want to ever forget,
or have lost the labels for.
Be careful climbing in the high branches, I was warned.
Silk can cut as deep as glass if you hold it tight.