By Theresa Costello (Malvern, PA)
You’ve seen my door stuck into the hill.
The locks and bolts keep me quiet and still.
The roots of trees hold me in their embrace.
Springy mushrooms and soft moss fill up my space.
Deep in the earth where mysteries dwell.
Where magic still grows like flowers in the dell.
There do I slumber, my furry head on my paws.
Stormy eyes closed and dreaming of fresh meat in my jaws.
Pointed ears twitch and turn at the small sounds they hear.
The Harvest Moon has arisen and soon I’ll appear.
Boulders tremble and quake at my growls from within.
Those who fear fate should flee for I am the Grim!