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.