Saturday, December 2, 2017


Fields We Know

Faerie seeds don't thrive
this side of the Border,
faerie forbs aren't timid
seed launchers; coiled springs
kick like tiny veggie mules,
knocking into next week
all the magic and terror
of the fae forest, but our world's
a scorched earth of rusty
nails, bottle caps, and the like,
a deathtrap for our pointy-eared brethren.

The green-eyed buxom blonde
who compelled you in a dream
has withered away, her and her garden;
you can't stick a shovel in the ground
anywhere in Mundania without turning over
something that burns, oh yes, it burns, my precious,
so launch, brave seeds, launch away, but never hope,
because with all our irons in the fire,
germination isn't an option.

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