Quiver Tree

You know, I don’t really ever write poetry, so I’m not sure why I did so here, other than the fact the idea of it wouldn’t get out of my head. It’s always fun to experiment, at any rate.

Quiet on a hill,

And quiet as can be,

A mouse sits underneath,

A bowed quivering tree.

Hushed and harrowed,

The wailing wind wisps,

Around fear-stained memories,

And trembling whiskers twitch.

But dawn shines bright,

Bleeding through branches bowed,

They feed on fear,

Taking all that is allowed.

Quiet o...