See that last patch,
sooty-white and wedged
between the trees? It’ll
lead you to the Snow Troll’s
nasty lair, if you don’t have
the common sense to stay
on outta there.

That crick between,
what’s creek to city folk,
holds jellied pods of tad-
faerie, a million thousand
single eyes, assessing how
and when accumulated circles
of intelligence of passersby
with collared dogs or not
might shatter.

All things nonexistent know
the human need to prove
smells like fish and tastes
like chicken. Build your argument,
go ‘head and slap those furthermores
on thick and high enough and just when
you’re about to—Boooom!!! sweet chips
of overestimation rain and tiny perfect
mouths catch every drop.

There is no waste, dear travel
mate, there’s only gain. That other
thing you rhyme with cross and boss
and albatross was dreamed up by
the Snow Troll, first cousin to
Ereshkigal and ilk, who whines
because he thinks his time
is nearly through.

This 12th of April day,
he grumbles still, defending
his last measly patch. Just let
him melt. Earth worms rejoice
and robins hold no truck
with what’s gone past


© Elaine Stirling, 2014