Spiced Hollows

Once a year, when the leaves start to turn
And summer starts to relinquish its burn,
Golden invites begin to appear
By owl or wind or something less clear.

They slip through keyholes, drift through trees,
Nestle in books or ride the breeze.
If one ever finds you, you’ll want to check yes.
Why anyone would decline, I can only guess.

Inside the scroll will be a few simple words:
Come to the Hollow...
Or else you’re a turd.

(Those are the words. Absurd? Yes, but you heard.)

Only the clever, the curious, the bold
Those craving magic, spice, and gold
Will find the path that leads the way
To where the mischief comes out to play.