The Morning After

When Dawn Harmon, President of the Missouri State Poetry Society and leader of the Crawford County Bombadils, sent out the writing prompt asking for poems that convinced readers something superstitious was real, I did not think I could do it. But I have just enough blarney in me, I tried anyway. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

              The Morning After 

I was always told the Little People weren't real,

That they hammered little shoes only in fairy tales,

But this morning I know better.

In a wakeful night under a milky moon,

I listened to them tap, tap, tapping their tiny toes

Way late into the night while I couldn't sleep.

I heard them dance, sing, and dance some more.

My own toes twitched while calves trembled to the tempo

Of the tin whistles and harps I could hear.

This morning my legs were sore from keeping time;

My mouth felt parched, possibly a dry drought from poteen.

I listened carefully for tunes or wooden hammers hitting 

                                            leather,

But the sun had already climbed the horizon.

So the Little People were burrowed away, snuggled 

                                           underground.

My fingers rubbed sleepy eyes as I pondered the stillness.

Maybe tonight I will slumber…but then again, maybe not.

I pick up a strange gold buckle from the floor…and smile.