O Witch in the Woods, 

Who turns trespassers into frogs,

And protects my kind in your forest,

The one you spent years cultivating,

Growing into a mass of thick trunked trees

And meadows blooming colourful flowers,

Cut by the streams going right through them,

Dimmed by the upper foliage that blocked parts of the sun.

O Witch with such control of the Earth,

Could you turn me into a frog?

Shrink me until my eyes turn wide

While my problems float away 

Like leaves fluttering in the wind.

Have the lily pads that sway atop the streams

Become my bedding and place for sunbathing

While I sleep under filtered rays of the sun

Underneath the shelter of the canopy

Created by your trees above me,

Warming my cold-blooded body,

Holding me in an embrace of loving heat.

I would awake croaking and screeching into the woods

To match the tone of the orchestra 

Of rustling leaves and howling winds

That act as my alarm.

Let me hop from branch to branch

And crash to the ground,

Saved by the wandering Gays you protect,

And be held in their soft and subtle hands,

Or gently placed in the pockets of their clothing,

Peeking my head out to watch

A world where my stress has disappeared.

O Witch in the Woods,

Could you turn me into an owl?

One with grey feathers peppered with black spots

To contrast the colours you painted your forest,

And eyes made of the same abyss that birthed space,

My means of watching the mortal realm from my perch,

In a plane of no consequence.

Grant me permission to sleep throughout the day,

Awakening in the cool night of possibilities,

Chirping and singing to the moon that brought it,

Ignoring the minusculities of work and stress.

Dawn would bring about my resting on branches near the open flower field,

Spending too much time turning my head around,

Grasping each sweet scent that the forest garden produces,

Prompting the petting and admiration

Of the soft subtle handed Gays that awake by the time I sleep,

And just as devoid of stress as I.

O Witch in the Woods,

Can I become a flower?

Conjure me as one in your floral garden,

With pedals splattered in hues of pink and purple.

I would rest easy feeding on the foliage filtered sunlight,

Rather than the stress that once governed my life,

Let me prompt the interest of the bees

That sleep and hold their feet within my embrace,

And use me to create a concoction of sweetness divine,

That the Gays in this forest you protect collect.

Let them collect me,

Peeling me from the dirt in hands now caked in soot,

Yet never disturbing my roots,

Have them place me in a pot from their abode,

And water and sing away any fears and stresses

That may have lingered in my roots,

Hope that they would give me a bizarre name

Never dare used on a child,

Hope that I would become a symbol of their love,

With all problems of mine obsolete in this form in your woods.