Once upon a time the Treasure of the world entire told a story about treasure in a field, treasure within treasure, a kingdom in a kingdom in a seemingly arbitrary object, a field of the whole world

I remember when these angry men were children, lovable children, and now they behave as though they still don’t know

You are the treasure

The King and his Kingdom is the treasure.

And if that were not enough, what will a man do if he (gains the whole world)

And loses his own soul?


The children hover above

The greenest grass

Their small, bare feet

flip back and forth rhythmically keeping them

Aloft, airborne hummingbirds

Their father questions this decision

This ordinary use of levitation which can only be

Accomplished by the very young

But I insist I remember once being just such an unfettered soul

Defined by light

Dearest Girl,

Pfft. I started to write a short story about you and your fairy godmother. She is a larger-than-life-take-no-guff fictional lady who lives in a real house in a real town where we both had our hearts broken.

She had a red-brick house with an actual turret in the middle of the cozy little town Kipling called Muskrat–Kipling, who might have advised handing you over to Baloo or Bagheera had you and I met up with him in our peripatetic trips about town.

I would let you run (fast as you can) to each stop sign (but wait for me there), most alarming for the people in their cars, always concerned you would just keep running.

I realized I could not finish the story. You can’t know a fairy godmother is trustworthy on the first or the second or the 500th day. You can’t know until

You figure out for yourself why and how she stares down all comers

As the most beautiful music

Spills out over the lawn, into the dark, dark night.