Serewood

The gypsy runs her finger down a trunk;
It is rough, wrinkled with age
much like the rocks at her feet.
The site is lit by sunlight
Pouring from the green canopy
She shall build a caravan, she decides;
And she shall live another day,
For she can feel the forest.

The fox's ears twitch.
They hear him - the hunter - laying traps
on the patches of grass that resemble
patches on a poor girl's dress.
They hear him - both cub and vixen -
And, padfooted, slip back into their den;
They shall live another day,
For they can hear the forest.

The beggar woman thirsts.
She stumbles to the open stream, quenching
it. She realizes
she is hungry; she reaches out a hand,
picks an apple,
and bites into it.
She shall live another day,
For she can taste the forest.

The little girl breathes deep, overlooking
the village. The wind
whips her hair and cloak, throwing back
her hood, red as blood.
In the shadows lurk a pair of yellow eyes,
with a set of fangs sharper
than a witch's nails. The wolf licks his chops;
The girl carries a basket.
And he shall live another day,
For he can smell the forest.

The blind man wanders.
He steps over grass and stone, twigs
crunching at his feet.
He feels a tree's aging bark, and concludes
that it has been there fifty years.
He picks some fruit to eat.
His other senses are sharper, to make up for his being blind.
He can smell the wild roses and dung on the path,
and tell that the footprints nearby
were a rabbit's,
who had passed no more than an hour ago.
He sits at the foot of the tree, listening.
Listening.
Listening.
There is a gypsy nearby, finishing her home; later,
she will house a beggar. The hunter,
who did not catch his fox, shall capture a wolf at dawn,
freeing a little girl with a red hood...
All before the forest shall consume them.
He listens to the wood, as she listens to him too;
And he will live for many days,
For he alone can see the forest.