Woods

If there were woods

To be found nearby,

I suppose I could walk

Through them, daring

To live deliberately.

Or I could always

Run there with my

Favorite yellow bear

And his timid pink friend.

Perhaps I’d roam them

Blind, wearing a bright

Yellow cloak to ward off

Those We Do Not Speak Of,

Stumbling, determined to reach

That mysterious place beyond.

Or worse, I’d run for my life,

A dark hooded figure at my back,

Wide mouth dripping unicorn blood,

Thirsty for my redeeming flesh,

And hope the centaurs

Or maybe Hagrid

Were close enough to save me.

Wherever the wood, however tall the trees,

I would do none of these things, for I am not

A character in another’s quiet masterpiece.

I might sit with a book

Or a pen and paper

And write

An adventure

Of my own.