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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.