Quiver Tree
You know, I don’t really ever write poetry, so I’m not sure why I did so here, other than the fact the idea of it wouldn’t get out of my head. It’s always fun to experiment, at any rate.
Quiet on a hill,
And quiet as can be,
A mouse sits underneath,
A bowed quivering tree.
Hushed and harrowed,
The wailing wind wisps,
Around fear-stained memories,
And trembling whiskers twitch.
But dawn shines bright,
Bleeding through branches bowed,
They feed on fear,
Taking all that is allowed.
Quiet on a hill,
And quiet as can be,
A mouse leaves lightly behind,
A bowed quivering tree.