I palmed the wooden egg and smiled.
This forest was a trifling toy--
Terrible to remember now;
Delight at the time to enjoy.
The surface of the egg was smooth,
Polished as marble, fine as silk.
But something inside it trembled
And shifted like a bowl of milk.
I had an urge to open it,
To run a nail along the curves
Until I found its hidden latch.
I fingered it and something swerved--
A click, and it blossomed petals,
The inside of each petal fuzzed
With countless tiny, sharp-tipped firs.
I looked down in and there I was.
The black firs towered over me.
The ground was needle carpeted.
The night songs that weren't nightingales
But more like morning larks instead
Rose between the ranks of branches
And wrapped their notes around the stars.
I sensed I had lost my senses
But wasn't in the least alarmed.
I was home. I was my own
Idea of an extensive wood,
A forested ourobouros
Encircling me, and it felt good.
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