The Hunt in the Forest

In love with the passion of it

in another perspective

—The Hunt in the Forest moves her

in a weird way.

Stencil like flushing of the strength

in weakness peely wallpaper

adorn the wall,

youth picks at its corners

—curious

a child who  knows only comfort,

to young to know what's behind 

each tree so

I tell her love. 

She picks away more 

to see a blank wall stare back 

then enters with nary a peep 

or chirp of birds, no dogs, 

horses or men a foot in tights, 

no patterned trees. 

It starts with emptiness, I say.

Fragile as the hummingbird cupped tightly

in her desquamating hands peeling 

back the layers.