A goblin grabbles in the greeny forest—
Wood-willy, slurping his mouth-organ—
where a clump of aspens quivers
and benefolent spruces cascade.
A smear of pungent forest honey
licky on the tongue-tip of daylight;
Oh! His grasping arms were icy:
I was completely taken in.
I couldn’t stand his eyes’ unblinking
point-blank confrontation—
his look, full of pleading promises,
the icicle anguish in his eyes.
Lawn-rake fingers crabbing at me
from a shaky clump of catkins;
he had dark blue sighters
and a body all mush-flesh and flow.
I had missed a turn or two, tearing
along in a juventy frenzy. Slying,
the wood-wart winked and jostled
me: “Which way where? And why?”