Into The Woods
Eyes are staring, glowing,
You wonder what they want, what they need?
Is there anything that you could possibly give?
No.
You came,
You saw,
You trampled,
You cut,
You ploughed,
Into the woods.
And you brought nothing.
No gift, no meal.
No Offering.
For these are gods.
They are the gods of the hunt.
The gods that sing in the nyte;
Sing a song that helps their children sleep
While waking yours.
Your children cry at the site of them.
Is it fear?
Fear of a bushy tail, fuzzy ears, and a tickly tongue?
Or do your children know something you don’t?
Do they know that, in a simpler tyme,
They could have run,
Actually RUN with these gorgeous creatures?
They know and, because of it, they cry.
You know.
You aren’t crying.
Your children seem to be more mature than their parents.
Your children, at least, know how to mourn at a loss.