A Conversation with the Forest Spirit

“This land is good; this soil is well.
The timber is strong, for all I can tell.
A cabin, here, would no doubt succeed—
So build, I will, and let none impede.”


“Forsooth, my friend, I must object.
Indeed, these bounties are not yours to collect.
This wood is settled—by bear, by deer;
There is no place for a man in here.”


“Why so? I ask, may not we share?
They can each remain, for all I care.
This wood is large; there’s room aplenty;
Calm down, I say, for I’ll treat the beasts gently.”


“Perhaps you will, perhaps you won’t,
But this is what I urge you: *don’t!*
The forest will die, and you will follow,
Ere the sun ascends tomorrow.”


The man he scoffed, and shook his head,
He knew a wood could not be dead!
As for himself—he gave no heed,
For the spirit’s warning was pointless indeed. 


“I have my knife, I have my gun.
I have no fear, for I have won.
I will build my cabin—upon this very spot;
I dare you, spirit, to deny me my thought!” 


The man he laughed, unslung his pack—
Made camp, ate well, and prepared for attack.
A fire he lit, and a grand one at that;
Sat down, resolved; at the spirit he spat.  


As night approached,
And the darkness encroached,
Nearby shadows—they lengthened, 
And the gloom only strengthened.  


The man grew tired at last; his eyes they were closing.
Within a short while, he would be all but dozing.
Fowl in his stomach, and wine on his breath,
He fell asleep dreaming—of anything but death!


All of a sudden, the man started awake;
He realized quickly he’d made a mistake.
“The fire!” He yelled, “It surrounds; I’m doomed!”
Not a tree could he see, but in blazes consumed.  


The birds and the beasts had all vanished, all gone;
Alone the man was; his fate quite foregone.
He looked round in despair, and let out a wail;
“My madness! My folly! What useless travail!?” 


“Oh spirit! Oh spirit! What is it I’ve done?
Please save me, oh spirit, for hope I have none!”
As the fire drew near, and the heat grew intense—
He heard no response; not a word, no pretense.  


The scene shortly brightened; the sun rose anew.
A most powerful color—a rosy flushed hue.
The man he then panicked, ran crazed to the flame;
And not before long, part of the forest he became. 

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4j8zei/unrequited/d3565hs

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4japim/some_people_call_me_crazy/d356450