faerie dance, sprite on tiptoes

oh the anxiety of the hopeful
singing a song for the wishes
of shooting stars - and dandelions
blown clean as awhistle or the
short piece of the chicken's
wishbone held onto, fast
food doesn't cut a chicken
that way - not the way you
cut to my quick, taking a lazy
look over at the green fallow
fields of fate or the baled and
ready for the barn hay of life
unlived as waiting turns into
a restless head on restless
pillow in a restless bed under
a thin quilt and nothing else
between the universe and
life but some sheetrock lumber
shingles, else the stars would peep
as the dreams cause a struggle,
arms grabbing sides of the bed and
pulling the body around to center
and position for the symphony
of daybreak that comes when
all the others are chased
away by the sun, no faerie
dance, no sprite on tiptoes
none left to charm the dew away
as it falls to mourn the passing
of the twilight and the
rising of the sun
oh the anxiety of the hopeful