Walking through the woods,
sodden leaves cling to the soil,
a squishing sound under foot.
Bare branches cross my path
where circular mirrors dangle
with the reflections of youthful faces,
of family, long since dead.
They smile at me serenely.
I try to speak but my voice
had no sound.
When I look closer,
The faces turn to flowers.
There is a heavy scent
A white poodle was under the cherry tree.
A brass key swishes from his tail.
I motioned towards him
saw my name and house number
engraved in blood red ink.
Overhead, I heard bells chiming.
When I looked up, there were shells
tumbling as snow from a flame sky.
They landed in front of me,
melting into tiny yellow crabs.
I turned, facing a bronze archway
leading out to a lane.
In front of me was a tiny cottage
with a red door and white handle.
My name and number was on the door.
I stood outside, brass key in hand,
unsure about entering.