The garden fairy washes hands, 
as small as lemon seeds, in a buttercup 
over swelling with a dewdrop 
under the shade of a robin's wing-song. 

Food has been provided by the mortal 
who lives in that poisonous cave of false walls 
created from fluid of ancient carcasses, 
but she does not trust the lure. She watches  

as barely perching on the edge, 
a bright red cardinal carefully pecks 
only the finest sunflower seeds 
to place gently into his mate’s beak. 

The birds are daily satiated here, 
but still the fairy does not move, 
for they are larger than she; perhaps 
that is why they are not poisoned. 

A hole appears in the false wall, 
and the mortal emerges. The fairy freezes, 
unwilling to flee for fear of finding 
fixated eyes on her secret existence. 

Large teeth, upturned lips; the fairy shrinks 
even closer to the soil, yet the human holds 
a bowl of—the fairy sniffs—milk and honey. 
Slowly, the massive form kneels 

to place the bowl in a clover patch 
close by her buttercup. A whisper: 
“Fair Litha, faire folk,” and the mortal 
vanishes again into its bone meal cave. 

The cardinals and the robin fly away. 
She feels exposed yet emboldened, 
for a voice inside tells her Midsummer 
is a safe time to accept an offering 

from the young creatures of destruction, 
for they, too, came from Gaia’s bosom, 
and this gesture is evidence 
they are not beyond compassion. 

She flies low, disguised as a dragonfly 
to distant observers. Landing on the grass 
in the shadow of the bowl, she reaches 
her lemon seed hand over the top, 

cups some of the sweet ambrosia 
and brings it to her petite petal lips, 
gulping greedily this rare gift, 
her wings singing in the dappled sun.