In the Forest - June 5, 2011

In the forest,
oak leaves across the floor,
there sits a still man,
a statue moving no more.

His eyes are of stone.
The hair moves only in dreams.
Cold fingers, still lips.
The only sound is the stream.

It's chuckles and babbling
sound softly through the trees,
the symbol of all
the man fought for, free.

And softly past the man
a wondrous creature does step.
Pointed ears, rippling hair,
a magic secret well-kept.

Thin yet strong fingers
rest upon the brow
of the man like stone,
the forest sentinal 'till now.

And finally color
does reach his cheeks.
There is breath in his lungs.
The man finally sees.

But the creature before him,
the giver of his life,
has disappeared from the place,
a mere star in the sky.

The man cannot stand,
too long was he still.
Yet his voice gives thanks,
for he has his own will.

In the forest, now,
oak leaves across the floor,
no longer sits a man;
he is frozen no more.

And the stream is still running,
still sounding it's song
for the man who was like stone,
the forest sentinal, now gone.

-Quill Writer