We own a forest.
Not just any forest but
a magic stand of trees.
Twenty manicured acres that exude
Pagan callings to gods are buried
Somewhere in the tangled roots,
In the wealthy underground.
We thought it only one tree,
The Merlin Tree
Inhabited by an old, wise barn owl
Until we looked more closely at
The landscape’s bending branches
When no breeze was in the wind.
We certified it’s magic by chance.
A small puff, pink around its edges,
Trying to be a cloud,
Made a surprise appearance.
Our responsibility was to mythical matters,
We were sorry to say,
‘You have to grow up, first.”
In a flash, the sky turned from blue
To permanent rouge,
A full-throated voice rang out,
“There, are you satisfied?”
What could we say but,