Where Flowers Rest

 

There is a magical sprite that lives in the old oak tree

Wriggling to break the shell of its small reality

Where water glistens on the leaves without a sound

And time is spoken in the wooden round

 

Flesh falls, red and whispering

Crisp to the forest floor

Wake up.

Listen for the creaking door.

 

Between worlds

Life and death

Between dreams

Flowers rest.