SLEEPING PORCH, 4 A.M.

Woke in a drizzly haze
and saw his futile twinkle
on the screen by the bed:
Here I am, here I am, here I am,
blinking green-yellow long after
his star-kin had crawled under leaves.
I got up, caught him in my hands.
Walking to the door with the light
flashing between my fingers,
I was the old woman in an older tale,
holding the fairyking tight:
I will not let you go till you show me 
the gold, build me the castle, open for me 
the door to eternal joy.
But I let him go without conditions
and alone he flew pleading
above the long wet grass.

Published in The Kept Writer, Oct., 2002

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