“Will you barter for your garden?”
the familiar stranger taunted.
His haunting talk caught on a loose thread in my heart,
recalling time and battles fought.
Make no mistake about the fae.
I must admit I was afraid, for I have seen my adversary
tear out the grass’s screaming hair,
poison the soil with atmosphere arid,
strip the baby branches baren,
shave the landscape clear.
I need not obey him.
I have in my hands a *****
and around this place an angry hedge.
He can not prevail unless I show him the way.
“No,” say I,
“No bartering in my garden today.”
An old one from the beginning of the semester that I've neglected to post here.