Beyond the bridge and water's edge
along the wood and past the hedge
above the hill and down the way
lives Emma Gemma Andeline
Emma Gemma has bright red hair
that springs and coils and snips and snares
and bites the hand that holds the comb
(unless it's Emma Gemma's own)
inside her hair between the locks
are tweeting birds and shiny rocks
her eyes are blue and when they're not
they're brown or gray or polka dot
sometimes they're red with yellow stripes
sometimes they're green sometimes they're white
her teeth are shaped like teeth most times
(a shark's or bear's or wolf's are fine)
Her home is full of ancient tomes,
of stories, magic, spells, and poems,
And on the mantle, shining bright,
are little jars of captured light,
in the corner, against the wall,
A stick as long as she is tall.
It has a hook along the end,
For poking at things now and then,
And on the shelf beside the glass,
A house-shaped lantern made of brass
That hooks along the hooked staff
when Emma needs the Special Path.
Her forest home is small and sweet,
a cottage perched on chicken feet,
that rests beneath an Autumn oak,
whose orange leaves serve as a cloak,
and hide away the house from sight
from all whom Emma won't invite.
But others freely come and go,
uninvited, but still they show,
and Emma greets them cordially,
with trays of bread and cups of tea.
These guests are pale and shine faint blue,
(so pale sometimes you see straight through)
Their words are weak, their voices soft,
And in the air they hang aloft,
they float above the kitchen floor,
they hover near the hallway door.
Some are lost, some are afraid,
Some want to leave, some want to stay.
Whoever they are, or what they say,
Emma helps them on their way.
She points them to the proper road
She gives them blankets for the cold,
She gives them tea to calm their nerves,
She gives them bread, fruits, preserves.
And when it's time for them to go,
Emma locks up her chicken home.
And with her lantern and her staff
She'll guide ghosts down the Special Path
A path that appears now and then
When Emma needs to guide new friends
In every autumn, every year,
Emma Gemma will disappear.
she'll grab her lantern on a stick
she'll strike a match and light the wick,
She'll tie her scarf and grab her coat,
and she'll trundle down the Special Road