Spirit of the Forest

I was tricked like the wanderers who seek the spirit of the forest.

They follow his tracks, not knowing his feet are flipped backwards.

They pursue him in the north, when he’s already headed south.

They clamber uphill after him, when he’s slipped down to the valley.

They try to wear him out on a long march, themselves short of breath,

then stop and circle back to the point he started from.

If only it was that capricious forest imp who lured me out.

If only the trick sprang from a sinister tale: tracks from backward feet.

But it was you. Your ordinary words, little games

we both know so well. That thicket most treacherous of all.