The forests are empty
this time of year,
but there's a light in the window
of a house that's so near.
There's no harm in exploring,
there's no fun in resisting,
but the wolves have had their ladders out
and my friends are all drifting.
Plaid shirts and dungarees
denim, red and white
tread between the blades of grass
that don't quite cut but might.
Windows made of boiled sweet,
dripping in the hot sun
reveal the wonders of the little house
and already the enticing is done
and the licking of lips begun.