Merry Mill rises higher on the hill,
disappears behind a curtain of green,
woody arms and fingers inter-lace,
curling pointy welcomes,
drawing us in.

Terebithia awaits.
Fireflys light the way down the
fern-kissed path where
Tagless, cost-less dreams
Hang on secret trees. The fruit
wrinkles your tongue if
you eat them before the
Faeries come.

I know they are hiding
beneath the mushrooms,
tall and wide, lush
sacred umbrellas.
This time we will see them.

Come with me.


 
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