Passing fancies

Written by Kim Fahner
(for Lila)

Caught at the edges of peripheral vision, 
all fractal fern covered and spider web garbed, 
tiny faeries spin themselves—twirling tops—
across the gravel of a northern road. They gather
together in the rotted stumps of forgotten oak trees,
swing haphazard from long brooms of sumac
as it turns bright red infall’s brisk light. 

Some would say they are a figment—
passing fancies of a fevered brain—
but those who believe in them know better
because we have passing thoughts of the elementals
that live under the rickety back porch, or just beyond
the fence line of the long garden in the backyard, or tucked into
a tree hollow edged with moss and mushrooms, or hiding under
a rock outcrop next to a spare burbling brook along a hiking trail.

Many will tsk-tsk us, tell us to hush our minds,
not think of what is unseen but still present:
wonderful things with wings that move
silkily between worlds and dimensions. 

The faeries won’t mind. They’ll go on long after we’ve left,
ziplining through the tall ferns drenched in dawn’s dew,
riding on the backs of strong dragonflies, sitting
on the edges of pinecones, or maybe even
practicing sharp pirouettes on tiny iced up puddles—
skating across them as if they were wide January lakes. 

So we’ll go to the brook, kneel in the mud and
put our hands and fingers deep into the soft moss.
We’ll squat down and close our eyes and
put out our hands—palms open, welcoming—
waiting to feel brush of gossamer on our cheeks,
noses, or chins. And we’ll know that what’s real
isn’t always what’s so obviously seen,
but rather only imagined.