by Brett Rutherford
Gather the spores of ferns
on St. John’s Eve,
when fireflies
and will o’ wisps
are wont to flicker.
Sprinkle the brown dust of them
about your cap and cloak,
and you may dance
with the elves and fairies
invisible, and
unmolested; reach
into the cache
of buried treasure
and bring up gold,
or even, if such
is your desire, stand
at any crossroad
and converse
with suicides.
Last, walk home
slowly and silently,
lest you alarm the hens
or rouse a dog’s
suspicions.
Fern seed shaken
from off your garb,
greet then the dawn
with a secret smile.
