A thousand rings from the heartwood,

the little shadow peeks out,

holding her breath.

A rustle of fallen leaves,

the taste of salty beads on her lips,

the shivering, uncontrollable.

As soon as you look, she's vanished.

Walk soft with toes of kindness,

the path is sore,

worn by her curiosities,

glimmers of hope left behind;

a little button here,

a tiny plucked flower there,

breadcrumbs and beacons

whispering the same note,

"I need help, I'm alone."

You see her little home,

sticks against a stone wall,

acorn cups of rainwater,

berry snacks lined up in rows,

her dirt smudged face

barely risking sunlight.

You sit in the glade and wait.

She stares at you,

hardly daring

the terrible risk

of hope again.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say.

She runs,

pudgy legs leaping,

landing in a bundle,

galaxy eyes wavering.

She snuggles deep,

streaks of dirt and tears falling,

resting her head against your chest,

listening for life for forgiveness for anything

you offer.

"I'm not going anywhere," you say again.

Then you feel the shift,

the softening,

the trusting,

the breathing,

all right here inside,

as you keep her close,

as you remember

this new feeling of together,

this pinky promise

of not alone.

She smiles and falls asleep in your arms.