The trees let down their colorful children
Ancestors of maple oak and willow in a three acre plot
Bowing their heads to the evening wind
Showing venerability to the forest
The nighttime gardners work by the light of the harvest moon
Picking and snipping at the shaded leaves
Careful not to draw blood to their vulnerable fingers
For who knows what strange creatures would be drawn from their primordial caves
By the crimson in the white glow
Their children love the moonlit working hours
Abandoning their quilt covered dreams
Skipping to and fro in the fragile light
Their cries of simple joy bringing energy to the tired elders in the fields
There are stories that are told around the crackling flames of children's gatherings
Where eager eyes lose sight of the sparks turning to fireflies in the warm night
These stories are told to cool the burning blood of the impulsive youth
To put names and faces to the ones before them
Who gave into their wretched curiosity that kept humans alive
Only when possessed in perfect balance with fear