In the forest, the ferns curl, Like thoughts trailing, Into the unknown. Moss gathers in soft pockets, Stained grey and green, Where rabbits burrow, Echoing life, the breath of leaves. Each step, a careful tread, We disturb the silence, A quick flutter leaves, A whisper of something Spun in the web. Oh what delight to walk Among the mighty trunks, Wrapped in wonder, a thread Holding the breadcrumbs Of youth—time stops, In this embracing air.

• Margaret Atwood