Vernal TrespassBehind the willows, though the oaks,
out where the purple jack still pokes
his hooded knob between the rotten things,
the toadstools grow in measured rings
and half-heard music barely sings
its vernal anthem. In the morning,
ignorant of gran'thers' warning
tales of strange and ancient folks
who's revelries intend no good,
I trespassed in that hidden wood,
and there those feys beset my brains
and braided elflocks through my skeins
of dulling auburn hair.
But this I swear and tell you square,
I didn't see them over there
I didn't see them anywhere.
They seemed to scatter e'er
a notice of their efforts tread
within my fuddled head,
the scent of rose without its red.So send those long and cleansing rains
and winds to whip the fallen to their drains.
I'll bury me in earthen night
and dress my feet in stagnant flight,
but never will I walk that way again.Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com