November 4, 2002
I know what lies beneath
your wooden walls
jutting from the earth, revealing a door
oh so cleverly hidden
with the green clover
growing at your doorstep.
I know there is a home,
warm, with a full larder, and a soft carpet for your tender feet
Good books to read,
an antique watch as your mantle clock,
the wind-up kind, so it never dies,
the time it shows is never the same as in the human world,
but what does that matter to you?
I know you have a little fire in your little fireplace,
the chimney-hole ever so cleverly designed
to carry smoke far from your entrance,
so mostly it coats the chimney's walls and
isn't noticed when it leaves.
I know you have, down there,
a treasure trove of wealth beyond measure:
the crystal beads and pearls I dropped,
lost change, an heirloom ring
the owner was never able to replace.
I know you have friends who come by to visit
bringing dandelion wine, while you
serve hot rosehip tea with honey, and acorn cookies,
and you converse long hours by the fire
at peace with yourselves and the world,
(except when the children run above your world
and your teacups from a little girl's doll set rattle in their saucers
spilling rosehip tea on your laps)
I know all this,
but your secret is safe with me.
Copyright © 2002 Susan Midlarsky