On the forest floor lay
needles of pine thick and plush—
a carpet for hooves and faery wings,
a bed of discarded Christmases,
of carols and candlewax,
cherubs and wreaths…
once laid to rest, now rebirthed
prickly and soft as a rose
petal with its thorns,
a winding trail for make-believers
and children’s plucked hearts
seeking witches’ cackles
and warlock wands,
and talking cats with Cheshire grins,
disenchanted Queens of red,
flying monkeys in fez hats,
an Army of dwarves
and princes with lips that break spells.
© 2014 Leslie I. Benson
