The Little People
If I stand on tippy-toe
and turn ever so lightly
a space will open in the air
the smell of it drifts past my nose.
Sometimes when I turn like that
it is a rose garden all green
and pinkish, heavy with beese.
I know little people live in the creek
I know the perspective of looking up
through the underbrush as if it were jungle
the branches grow together overhead.
Sometimes the sun never peeks through
but there is always leaf on leaf
green on green—bright green jewels
lit from within—the green suns of our world.
At night in the pale moonlight
we play and play like we do all day
and all over, the blackness is touched
with a soft yellow of the fairy Queen’s nightgown
that she has thrown off playfully
and it floats down all around the world
the grass glistens moonlight on the dew.
The only thing we miss is the people-music
their instruments that sing like us
their baking sends smells down to us
we grow mischievous then and plan
ways to sneak through kitchen windows
at night we raid their refrigerators
as if we were their teenagers
who get a notion at midnight
they are a lot like us.
If only the people still remembered us
and left their food out on doorsteps
playing their music for us
sometimes joining in a dance
(that’s okay—we’ll do the singing).
I remember when the creek grows dark
under the cool branches and the leaves
are lit up and jewel-like,
the music is just out of ear-shot,
then my eyes can’t leave the clearness of the water.