Metaphorical

the sound of mystery slips gently in 
the hush of thistles' smooth caress 
waving in the mist like the moon rays 
rocking cradles in the tree tops 
finding the way in you a place to stay 
when we think of the forests' weaving 
we like to think of them filled with 
little running streams that trickle 
in the background song of many birds 
but if you would like to get an image 
of what fills you to the brim to flow 
over 
know that we make the mistake of best 
choosing a specific phase of the thing 
and that all the while we understand 
that the cycle of death and rebirth 
crackles in this space with bursting wood 
as the flames' convection bulges the fire 
the sweet smelling amber and resin sizzle 
and what follows behind it is a tapestry in red

finely woven