It’s possible the woods
are
peopled with other folk,
fairies
and elves, gnomes, a troll perhaps,
so
small or quiet or hidden
that
we cannot see nor hear them.
Yet, we can feel their presence,
sense
someone, something there
at
the rustle of a leaf,
a
branch snapping, loud and sharp, unexplained,
or
a shrill call unrecognized
in the animal lore we learned,
those
stories told by our parents, and theirs,
living
here and aware as we are. Except
now,
we seem so unconcerned with the other
folk
peopling our woods, small and quiet,
hidden. But in the far reaches
of
our years, back to childhood,
when
things were simple, easily explained,
and we believed in the possible,
in the unimagined
imagined,
we remember them, again,
recalling who they are and where;
for
they live there still, among the trees and stones,
watching
us, secretive, their own stories
of
strange creatures told, clumsy
and
loud, unimaginable, impossible.
We two share these woods,
them
and us, and imagination,
each
of us a creator of the other
in
the presence we feel, the stories we tell,
each
of us brought to life, imagined and possible.
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