small hot milk
there is a little tiny man
who cuts up my nutmeg for me
he comes down to my house from the moon
on a tiny pair of snowshoes - silver-stringed
like electric tennis rackets
he cuts up the spice very quickly, into
tiny diamond-edged triangles; much better
than any grater or grinder can make
is the fresh taste of this
that he cuts - but
unfortunately
one night i caught him and squashed him against the wall
burst like a bug and guts - i
was tired, i was half-awake, he surprized me - no more
will i see the quick crazy half-smile
that would cross his face as he plied his tiny scissors; no more
will i see his eyes glint and glitter in the yellow kitchen light. He was beautiful.
2011 Peter Greene.
2 comments:
Aw, poor little guy!
ouch!
he didn't know that a surprise is a surprise as long as it is not repeated much...
you surprise the reader, dear Old Peter... each time in a new way...
:)
love your poetry very much!
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