(thinking
through the affordable housing shortage)
“The
fairies have never a penny to spend;
They
haven’t a thing put by.
But
theirs is the dower of bird and of flower
And
theirs are the earth and the sky.”
-Rose
Fyleman-
to Rose Fyleman, William Allingham, and Mary Norton
maybe
we’ll go take the lid off an acorn
some place in the Forest with
violets close by-
(where snails don’t creak
through the underbrush to drink off the dew,the noisy things)-
line it with a thread of
moss (for carpeting), put the “roof” back on and pray hard to become
very small
(though, not in that order)
to fit inside, like the
lease always says, in:
“quiet enjoyment of the
premises”
what’s the worst that could
happen?
no one would come to assess
the property
or collect the rent.
or the mortgage.
here’s their dilemma:
(which acorn are you
stashed in, anyway?)
probably no room for the
dining room table, though-
even without the maple drop-leaf.
certainly no big screen
anything.
but also, no bad tv.
no sheriff with the
eviction notice unless he
had a
stronger prayer life than
could be imagined,
a legendary instinct
and could shrink that small
after all that Cajun barbecue,
strawberry pie;
Lord help him with a
sorrowful job.
I mean it.
but even then it would
probably have to be
either him or the eviction
notice
that slipped through the munchkin
door carved carefully…
at lunchkin-
you know how paperwork is,
unless it’s poetry.
but you’d give him coffee or
toffee ice cream in a thimble
some cruller icing crumbs or
a drop of green tea.
and something scrumptious
for the birds.
(on days off, he likes to
feed them.)
how about Lincoln logs.
Tinkertoys. Leggos.
or any combination of the
above?
(good thing you never threw
anything away you hoarder
Cause here’s that rainy day
again a goblin screams)
build it into a waterfall
like Frank Lloyd Wright.
or like a project for the Science
Fair
that one you had such hopes
for
in the first wind gust to
tump
over and become like pick up sticks
scattered everywhere, but
colorfully!
giving Beauty back its own
even in catastrophe;
what more could a tiny
artist wish for
but then, there’s squirrels-
-or my name isn’t Thumbelina-
and it’s almost winter time.
you’ll either be buried
(we’re back in Acorn
Cottage now)
and the squirrel
will forget where he put
you next Christmas
(this matters only if
there’s air holes
Down there)
or-
you’ll be a Fall, crunchier
than could have been counted on
after squirrel-school snack
for the little ones-
kind of like a Jonah and
the whale situation from the Bible
only furrier, fluffier,
meaner perhaps, in a hard frost-
pray
to be swallowed whole (!)
though no one in Nineveh’s going
to
put up with a prophet they can barely see-
even if you do manage to
shout at them
from the forest floor -
standing on tiptoe with a sparkly
message
near the thudding pine
cones.so.
maybe we’ll go to the beach
all on our own
(and still quite small)
off-season- and find a
couple of pale-
pink largish shells to tuck
under
or something else that’s
free the sea
tossed back where it’s
always creaming waters at low tide.
near the Coast Guard, if
you don’t mind.
I’d like to be defended if
at all possible.
but do you really want to be
there when that lady
in the floppy hat with the
perfect one red rose
putters down to the
shoreline for sea glass near
your home sweet home
and you’re inside asleep
and wake up
hammered into earrings?
mary angela douglas 2-3
october 2012
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