The wind was crisp,
with a hint of creeping autumn,
swirling what was left of the morning mist
like dust along the bottoms of the old trees.
There were few in the little cobbled town
who's feet had ever found their way around
that ancient stand of trees.
Stories, by fire light from papered lips,
told bold recounts of fearless trips
to the forest's core, but what was truth
and what was lore was hard to tell for certain.

"When...," began a weathered man named Shale,
"..the ax came into the forest, the trees said relax
the handle is one of us..."
His tale was as the wind, everchanging, ranging from
open mouthed surprise to clenched fists and crying eyes.
And as his words like healing touched my soul like tinder,
trepidation smoldered to a cinder, and I knew that I
would one day join the great.