Morning pours a wash of light into the cracks of the forest

Shaking out her golden hair, washing it in the riverbanks

Breaking the surface of still water with her palms.

Merry laughter echoing in her wake.

In patches, the forest awakens.

Spiders blink away dew from their eyes, weaving

the drops in with their webs, snatching away pieces of

light from merry Morning.

The High Council, the trees of the oldest of old, begins

to breathe, rolling open ancient barkened eyelids, tilting

their great weary heads to catch the sun.

The boy of the forest sleeps with the weight of the oldest tree,

a great hibernating bear of a boy.

His eyes flicker in the dawn

Sunbeams casting down soft kisses on his face

The soil pushes him up from the burrow

into the light.

Yawning, yawning, stumbling about like a bleary foxling

Blinking away dewy eyes

He wanders the forest in the soft light

The forest reaches out tendrils to greet him

And he is awake, awake.