The forest spoke, and the pine needles fell.I wandered the wood, my mind in dismay.The trees are alive, can't you tell?
The leaves ablaze, a footpath in hell.Eyes captivated by frosted flame.The forest spoke, and the pine needles fell.
The Pumpkin Man utters a spell.Under his breath I hear him say"The trees are alive, can't you tell?"
It was more of a whisper, less of a yell.He dropped his head and began to play.The forest spoke and the pine needles fell.
My feet crunch as if walking on shell,skeletal leaves begin to decay.The trees are alive, can't you tell?
My nose pleased with that fresh autumn smell,as a gentle breeze caresses my face.The forest spoke, and the pine needles fell,"The trees are alive, can't you tell?"
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Poets and other communities.
First Starlight of Summer
Your whole being is constituted by yearning. You miss the stars but have never seen a fully-realized night sky sparkle to life before your eyes. You write things, funny but short but profound, emulating the archaic cosmos that turns by its own unknowable calculus emulating love in all its celestial glory turning in that same cryptic way, but fully know neither and hardly know both, and it feels disingenuous, so you write about writers. It feels vaguely masturbatory, but it’s funny but short but profound and it impresses the people around you enough, so you run with it forever until you can’t anymore.
By Steven Christopher McKnight4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.