Under a Tree Where Night Drips Thickest
Under a tree where night drips thickest,
slips through aged limbs as sweet as April rain,
sit with an old book, a treasure chest of golden pages,
wrinkled, brittle, scraped with ink and stories:
forgotten castles where bright banners snap
against the wind and goblins, with skin
as harsh as stone, snare rabbits and gnomes
to thicken their porridge and stew.
Light one candle against the dark tide,
calling the woodland’s issue to creep
beyond night’s curtain, listen to the book’s histories:
the foul taint of dragon’s breath, the sylvan songs
of elves. The black bear, the wolf, with its ivory fangs,
the mouse, quick and nervous, will relish the importance
of once upon a time, yearning for each happy ending.