Mabel the Maple
was no ordinary tree.
She lived in an Enchanted forest
and had sprouted from a magic seed.

From deep within the ancient Elf grove
she had been watered by a charmed spring.
All year long, she gathered stories
from the creatures that graced her growth ring.

She would absorb them from her root tips
as she hearkened with her papery bark.
Then write them on her five pointed leaves
for centuries until the grove became a park.

Each autumn she would release her stories
written on her unbound leaf pages.
To float along, on windblown song, to find
the receptive dreams of story tellers and sages.

They would wake with fresh and new ideas
and craft them with care and a Scribe’s skill,
then share them with all the eager ears,
or ravenous eyes, if they put them to the quill.

The stories would burn like Chainfire
with a ripple from nascent soul to soul
and spread like seed through the universe
then return to her, slightly changed, to be retold.

M. Zane McClellan

Copyright © 2015
All rights reserved

Look for stories from Mabel the Maple on my companion blog. The Poetry Channel’s Shorts, where my short stories are longing to be read.

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