The Whisper-Wood of Aspen Grey
In the hush where boundary fades from breath,
Where silver leaves quake soft as death,
The poplar leans with ghostly grace—
A sentinel in liminal space.
His branches speak in riddled sound,
A rustling tongue the soul has found.
Not wind alone, but voices glide—
Fae murmurs from the Other Side.
Aspen eyes, pale-veined and wise,
Reflect both moonlight and goodbyes.
The roots grow into the underworld—
This glade is where the veils are curled.
A single step beneath this shade
May slip your soul from light to fade.
The Unseelie come not loud, but slow,
With glances dark and truths they sow.
Their Queen walks silent, leaves like bells—
A crown of dusk, a cloak of spells.
She gathers tears in mirrored bowls,
And barters dreams to fractured souls.
But not all fae that tremble near
Bring only sorrow, loss, or fear.
A poplar dryad, pale and fair,
May bgaurd your fate with boughs of care.
He offers not a blade or boon,
But visions drawn beneath the moon.
And if you sleep ‘neath rustling trees,
He’ll write your name in haunted breeze.
Beware, beware, the grove runs deep—
The poplars never truly sleep.
They mark the space where voices roam,
And death and dream make tangled home.
Still… if your heart knows how to hear,
And walks the line of faith and fear—
You may yet pass where few dare tread,
And speak with fae who guard the dead.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment