If goblins are coming, they'll expect something.
Goblin tea.
I don't have the recipe.

Butts and stubs and the shrubs out front
but who knows what they'll want for lunch

It might be me
I don't have the recipe.

Reaching up but I don't know why.

It all was dark but now there's sky!

Tangled together with tendrils like fingers
Alive, I'm alive
And my body is new.

Where there once was a seed,
Now there's a view.

Do I even have eyes?
Can I see?
Is there someone taking care of me?

My purpose is clear and I climb
and when I do
The sugar courses through me and helps me burst through with leaves and seeds and pods of green.

Will it hurt when I harvest?
I have no voice to scream.

Just a need and a drive to create,
to be alive,
To drink water and sunlight
And to remain always green.

The drunk at the bar found Aristotle at the bottom of his bottle.

But there's an important phone call coming from his shoe so he quits the pop stand, shoe in hand, and runs outside to take the call but it's only God saying nevermind, I can tell you're busy and it wasn't important anyway.

A pack of wild dogs are following me home so I invite them in and give them gin but they snarl and quarrel till I've had enough and I huff and puff till they take the hint and go down to the corner store, and I lock the door because loose dogs on ***** is the best way to lose your rent.

It's all peace and quiet at 6am, the rain is falling with malintent but the world is sleeping and I am keeping these hours from leaking out into the homes of the children next door where they slumber without worry so I hurry to maintain their dreams of fairies and flying while my kind is dying in the glowing dawning of the day.

But Aristotle sleeps alone in his bottle at the bottom of the bin, and the dogs have their gin and the kids dream within their great happy innocence as I spin another sunrise from the maw of the sky and then die until tomorrow when I'll do it again.