Each time I begin to write a poem,
I re-enter the deep woods
where my mother's voice guided me

while she sat beside my nighttime bed
and told me of a talking wolf,
his eyes glistening with slyness,
who waited for Little Red Riding Hood
to stroll by

            or told me of--somewhere else
in the woods--Hansel and Gretel
who were outwitted by birds
that ate the needed route of crumbs
but who, in turn. outwitted
the old witch, warts and all, just in time,

a woods too big for any map
and full--my mother assured me--
of fantastic real people and animals
and dozens of new adventures
waiting to be imagined.


This poem first appeared in Verse-Virtual (2015).
Used here with permission.