I simply do not know this forest
Well enough to tell this story;
I claim what a stranger sees.
I see woods bedecked in glory.

If I were in Celtic lands,
I would know the words I’d use.
Sprite and glamour, fairy ring,
Will o’wisp and changeling,
But here it’s I who, stripped of lore,
Wanders guideless o’er mossy floors.
Like a story where the hero
Stumbles heedless into peril
Or ignorant of blessings given
To some strife is needless driven…

Perhaps all our myths are echoes
Chasing tails around the globe
And I should remember fables
Learnt around a childhood table
Else I come to some fae harm,
Or led away by twilight charm
Are lost amid the spirits here.
The dancing fire, the shadow boughs
Might close around me and the lights
Would ever bewitch my sleepless nights.

Or – perhaps they are a kindness.
Good fortune or a consecration,
Blessing all the leaves they touch
As well as I who gaze upon such
beauty. Maybe they will grant me
Happiness to bear away
And sprinkle brightly on my life,
So it might resemble woodland
In the dance of fireflies.
Perhaps to stray here would be wise.

Or maybe yet, a bunch of insects
Nothing more remarkable,
Apart from how they dress the night
And tumble through the forest’s heights
And form a second canopy
Of drifting, dancing artistry.
And if, perhaps, that’s all they are
I’ll take this moment happily;
Linger with them in the green
And play my quiet part in this lovely scene.

I simply do not know this forest
Well enough to tell this tale.
But either way, conclusion pending,
…I think I will stay awhile.