The Secret the Wood Fairy Knows

In deep forest with rotten leaves and wood Where the sun’s light finds it hard to reflect. Where wind won't blow even if it could below dense undergrowth, it’s deadwood wrecked. There is much silence there; all sound in check. Here’s where the webs of spiders hang and cling few flowers bloom, but weeds and mosses grow. Broken branches and twigs which the trees fling shrivel mushrooms that smell like sour bread dough. In there hides the things the wood fairy knows. A secret of life the wood fairy knows. His burrow dug deep in the undergrowth as he hibernates under winter's snow to sneak out come spring to run to and fro to play tricks on man and animals both. As he plays in the light between the trees while hiding in shadows of moss clothed stones. So very often heard but seldom seen is his deadwood follies with fancy tones like the shadows themselves the forest owns. Here in the deepest woods man seldom finds the burrows of fairies or nest of crows for we only go where the bare trail winds and we walk as if our eyes were closed. We seldom find what the wood fairy knows. I have pilfered in deep, dark woods in vain probing for what the wood fairy owns. I have concluded we are all the same. It is in oneself where happiness grows. This is the secret the wood fairy knows.