The Forest is Perfectly Safe

The forest is perfectly safe.

That's what the mayor tells the tourists,
while unveiling another cheerful trail map
decorated with smiling mushrooms
that never blink during daylight.

A brochure insists
the missing hikers simply
"embraced a quieter lifestyle."

The gift shop sells tiny iron keychains...
carefully painted silver,
carefully made of aluminum.

The locals buy two.

The forest is perfectly safe.

Just don't answer
when someone calls your name
using your mother's voice.

Don't count the children dancing
between the birch trees.

Don't thank the little woman
who offers you berries in winter.

Don't mention
that the shadows
are standing a little too straight.

If the trees begin whispering your birthday,
walk faster.

If they already know your full name,
it's too late to walk.

The forest is perfectly safe.

That's what the officials repeat
every spring,
right before another section
is fenced off for
"unexpected sinkhole activity."

Strange,
how sinkholes leave
tiny barefoot footprints.

Strange,
how wolves have started
wearing wedding rings.

Strange,
how every census forgets
the same seven families.

But paperwork has never believed in fairies.

The forest is perfectly safe.

The fae agree.

They're wonderfully polite.

They always wait
until you've invited them in.

Then they borrow your reflection,
your laughter,
your memories of home...

leaving you with excellent manners
and impeccable posture.

The village applauds your return.

You smile because everyone else is smiling.

You wave because they wave first.

And when another traveler asks
whether the woods are dangerous,

you answer exactly as you've been taught...

The forest is perfectly safe.