Redwoods hold water like moist towelettes.
Tree needles do not contain it,
dripping on the floor of forest they have dropped.
Dusky bark holds the essence of dew
long into brisk mornings,
becoming playgrounds for fairies
hopping upon moss covered rocks.
In pursuit of greatness,
giants step about,
using stumps as staircases.
Five fingered ferns reach up,
catching water on green leafed fingertips.
Bull-frogs give out full-bellied belches
on the edge of a pond
that no longer knows its own depths.
Footsteps leave no footprints
on possible paths;
blocked by fallen branches,
known for making widows.
Dark forests are never warm,
holding on to damp chill,
long after fog is gone.
Speckled sun beams stream
through the tallest of trees
never drying the forest floor completely.