The Wild Woods

 

The wild woods bristled

with ancient excitement,

as the trees settled into

their long silent slumber,

an Autumnal rest.

 

The roots, interconnected

across the forest floor,

sharing their slow dreams

of Springs and Summers

yet to come.

 

The trees skirted in

beautiful piles of orange,

yellows and burnt brown leaves,

in a ballroom of natural

delights.

 

The tree, bare,

stretching out knobby

tendrils towards the darkened

October sky. A teasing chill

blustering through the branches.   

 

The forest alive with color,

in the midst of hibernation,

electrifying imagination and

deathly allegories which humans are

so prone to entertain.

 

The trees only know,

in their secret language

what true horrors time

can cause. They know the

scent of impending terror.

 

An owl, hoots,

preparing for the night hunt,

in the empty limb of its treetop

abode, claws dug deep into the

bark.

 

A howling wind, rattling

the sleeping skeletons of the trees,

into the terrors of our own

limited imaginings and

pedantic paranoias.  

 

The woods,

wait.