To this land of wondrous fables
came some new folks cracking dawn;
they’d been spotted from the far hills:
one huge family, wagon-packed
— too old, and mule-drawn.
Word got out.
Every hand was to carry:
one great rock,
a heavy stick,
or thick mud filling a crock.
At the town hall they assembled,
busy with the weighty gear,
bringing hay, loosed from bales,
and torches burning clear.
The wagon pulled up to a clearing,
and the children hopped on out:
big and small ones,
short and tall ones,
— all a’shout.
Orphanage had burned down,
they had no where else to go,
so the fable folk took stock,
knelt in prayer,
heads hung low.
Bernie Bear, with his paw,
smacked twelve boulders into place,
“Build on this,” he told the rest,
“It’ll make a solid base.”
Maxie Moose, formed the next rows,
nudging boulders here and there,
while the Beaver Boys slapped mud
in cracks with tender care.
Possums brought their hanging branches,
arranging them to pitch a roof
and the larks wove in and out
sturdy vines to weatherproof.
Chipmunks scampered in with kindling
got that fire roaring hot
and in no time,
the old cauldron
held a stew to fill the lot.
Company fabled and company fed,
this is where their hearts were led.
Takes as much to hurt as heal
— all that matters is what’s real.
The woods are lovely places
often deeper than they’re dark.
Daisy Dove flew in the answer
to the question we forgot.