The unmistakable smell of wet grass
sunshine trickles through the cloud cover
bathing a sweeping meadow in a golden hue
up from the weeds stands a small figure
two legs made of fallen branches
and arms of leaves and moss
upon his head was an old bird’s nest for hair
and a cracked smile of bright green thorns
mother nature’s son, he was
everything she had hoped he could be
at his waist was a sword with no sheath
crafted from a single blade of grass,
it glistened with the dew around him
for three whole months, he played in
that sylvan meadow and poked his head
in and out of the shadows cast by
the trees around his home
he knew his boundary, and yet
the curiosity of the world outside
became too much for him to handle
the prospect of other meadows served
as the lure for his insatiable desires
his mother watched quietly as he took
the first steps into the forest, and alas,
those were also his last
for when he stepped from his paradise
he began to unravel; slowly at first
but then so fast that he hardly knew
what was happening, until it was
far too late to stop it
carving a path out of the meadow
there stood a trail of parts, each
blossoming again in the spring air
what he had paid for with his life
was the hope of another being
to continue outside the meadow
living on a lavender hill, his mother
sighs contentedly and twists
flowers and vines together
and starts on her next child.