A small little hedgehog lived under a log,
Timid and quiet, alone in the fog.
She muttered at beetles who danced on her trail,
And fled at the flap of a butterfly’s sail.

She bristled at squirrels with too much flair,
And side-eyed the fox with debonair air.
She’d grumble at toads for croaking offbeat—
Then wobbled away in a bashful retreat.

Though spiky in form, her heart was plush,
She’d shelter lost ducklings deep in the brush.
A guardian cloaked in thistle and dew—
A quiet resolve every wildflower knew.

When rain would drum on her leafy roof,
She’d sip rose tea from an acorn hoof.
And pen small poems in beetle-ink lines,
On mushroom caps with curling spines.

She scoffed at the buzz of modern pace,
Content in her moss-lined hiding place.
No fame, no likes, no need for show—
Just moonlit paths and earth below.

The world rushed past in a frantic blur,
But none moved wiser or kinder than her.
With prickles of purpose and paws of grace—
She brought quiet magic to the wildflower place.

• The Bramble Queen by Jay Rose Ana