A pebble of a girl in a beet-red cloak 

Stumbling over tree roots

Leaves crunching under her delicate feet

Hands clutched white-knuckled on the fraying strands of a basket

A lifeline

If she makes it

The girl can’t help but stop to graze the tree bark with her hands

Rough like a melody

Each tree a slightly different note

And inside the basket--  something heavenly

Soft smell of cinnamon rolls

Beckoning her home

A light in this dark forest

Yet she

Can not see it.

No, she is fixed on delivering this basket

But she takes her time,

Doesn’t run.

No, not in this beautiful forest.

Not when she must touch every tree and flower.

Little Red doesn’t know of the danger ahead. 

She carries on, oblivious.