A Glint o' the Green
© J.M.Stinson 2.10.2001. All Rights Reserved.

The Little Peeps, the ones unseen,
frolic in yon meadow green.
With swizzle sticks used for staffs,
they intently work their wizened crafts -
making torments for the biguns' lives,
who never ken when they'll arrive.

Younguns spy their elfin way,
and mimic them in song and play.
For those who've seen the folk in green
know they're not so really mean.
With mares of night, they toss 'n burn,
longing the wee ones' soon return.

When dew drops form on fern and grass,
grateful are they, the Dark has passed.
Out from within their huts of leaves, come
Little Peeps with rolled-up sleeves -
ready to begin another day, making
giggles and squiggles on pots o' clay.

Pots for the children, if truth be told,
to carry home their new-found "gold."
True treasures be not at rainbow's end,
but under rocks and 'round the bend.
Better n' that, with moonlight's rise,
the best of the best, the last surprise -
there's an emerald sparkle in sleepy eyes -
a reminder that babes keep lore ALIVE.