A whisper rustles in the trees,
murmurs vibrate at twice the speed,
the shadows lurking,
shadows of trees smirking,
at the fear,
a fear beauteous on one such a dear.

But the trees have got it all wrong,
you are the one to be smug all along,
for the fear lies not in your heart but upon your face,
they are now to fear the space,
your presence your being is all very there, from the pale of your skin and the auburn of your hair.

With every blink you awake ancient trees,
as their young and wives make fear stricken pleas,
the forest once scary now lacks its tack,
for you are the daughter of the dead lumberjack.