Wildwood poppies. Wildwood touch me. Behind the birches whirl. The bongo boys in their summoning. The sound seeds now. In the fingers of the eastern breeze. Where the sleepless wait. For her ascent from the perilous pit. She said the only way to change our fate. It is to make it rain. Wildwood poppies. Wildwood touch me. Past the Alders and the Oaks. Through the Willow Grove snakes the Ivy's gift. Which taught you can't escape anguish. But how to live with it. Then reports from the robins. Form in you an inner radiance. It's as if they fused with a spirit you knew. Who's come back again. Wildwood poppies. Wildwood touch me. Off the pilgrim's path. With the talisman he placed in my hands. With its magic mapped from winter's past. It leads the way. After three long months. Endured with her absent. Over dragon lines we walked. The current a labyrinth. With little green corn shoots. Now in abundance. As the forest celebrates. She says make it rain. Wildwood poppies. Wildwood touch me. Touch me again