My Mystic Forest

Darling Sir Knight will thee not
take me on a journey far.
Through the mystic forest,
where the fragrance of decaying leaves and flowers fill our
noses with a rich and earthy smell.
Tis it not sad the way that the young
and wild rose weeps as summers' end approches.
She is weeping her petals away and laying them on the forest floor.
These are the tears of joy and sorrow both, dripping down below her.
The wind whips through and dries her tears brushing them away.
Petals and tears no more.
The fatherly oak strong and tall,
takeing heed not to wind nor storm. Laying his leaves down.
Blanketing the young ones beneath his mighty limbs.
Keeping warm and safe tender ferns from the harsh winters' touch.
Mother Earth rotates round. Each day is nearer to an end.
The end of new birth and the beginning of the time of rest.
Soon our mystic forest will appear as a wonderous fairyland.
The rich soil blanketed first by a sheet of leaves
and then by a quilt of snow.

copywrite © 1997 By Sheila Lynn

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Email: sheila_lynn@hotmail.com