In the forest I hug the oldest
denizens and whisper, Grandmother
always heeding Treebeard’s plea
keep an eye peeled for the Ent-
wives. Perhaps they’ve paused here
in deep languor inspired to hold
the wide lake view in cliff perches.
Gathered in a presentation of beauty
glossy and green. Surely they won’t
take umbrage at this three-year-old
practicing his initial magic,
unseasoned and wild hugs and
shouts of joy. You may scoff
at my stories, but I know
a secret: a net of word games
holds us enthralled, from history
pages at age ten to the nightly
news, spinning webbed fantasies.
I choose to believe in trees,
honor the keepers of the planet,
listen to the songs their bird
messengers carry. Find the deep
knowledge in ancient tales, celebrate
the great treasure each fallen acorn.