The Garden of Lost Children

Sweet, lost child; darling, winged light, 

whence you fly in this waking world?

For only in mine slumber, our Garden of Faery Delights, 

do we prance and dance and chantes like 

our foremothers in their Cottingley Beck

or the tales we hear of Pixie Hollow, 

thimbles all the way down. 

When shall it be that I tour your cottage, 

Deep in your incandescent Elfin grot?

I tire of these humans and their 

bore of great expectations. 

To whom should it matter if my 

bones are weaved in marrow or pixie dust, 

my genes painted in xy or xo?

Such simple accidents as paltry as 

the particles of the atoms of the dew drops of 

a freshly-bathed forest-bed at dawn. 

I choose to wonder at more handsome things: 

the crown of violets in your breath as you whisper secrets; 

the scintillating genesis you unleash with every laugh; 

the Promethean blazes ‘neath your wild, wild eyes. 

Sweet, lost child; darling, winged light, 

whence you fly in this waking world?

I wait now and invariably in our nocturne grot, 

knowing you too will wink three times and return

to this fantasy, picking up the dance from its last step; after all,

to kiss you would be an awfully big adventure.