Mountain-Wolf-Tribe

I wear my red riding hood, dragged through the mud, The color of red delicious apples, fall leaves, or blood, Of holly berries dabbed crimson on white in the winter, Of scarlet roses whose thorns prick my fingers - a splinter; The tint of rosy cheeks and a proud up-turned elfin nose, The hint of blood-red lips, that loud color that most shows, The hue of a fox, a red wolf, or of a cardinal’s feathers, The view of a sunset on a changing sky in clearer weather. My hood I wear to protect me from danger, falls, and harm, From being cast under a spell or a dangerous love charm, From being onward escorted by a courteously offered arm. It’s hard to tell a lie, yet that bright blinding shade of A red apple in the eye means you’ve fallen deep in love! I keep a sharp eye out beneath raised hood and hair fringe, Upon which a certain light casts that same reddish tinge, Out when the lowering light makes my hid heart unhinge. Safe there and protected in the red-leafed autumn wood, Protected by