The proud pines scratched the sky in swaying unison

And the soft floral creatures rambled between tangled roots

Foraging for flair, sniffing out the rare words

That once grew and splashed in tune with the rushing stream

You cannot speak of these stolen words with any soul

For the dark pines screamed and scratched that angry stranger

Who chopped the wild words from creaking boughs

And plucked the fallen chunks and shards for fuel

But the watchmaker only hears his ticking trade

The whines of the pines are lost in the chugs and the cogs

And the clock’s jewels flicker, each click with brilliant fires

These flames smolder with words from the forest’s floor.

But through the watchmaker’s lens

The crying pines will be whole again.

And the soft creatures will heal.

And the world is safe.