Sometimes the night

In the small cold hours,
I am silent in my library, with its
old leather smells and the yellow light
And the weight of a volume in my lap
And think myself safe.

But sometimes the night calls me.

I hear the wind mourn at my door as it claws,
tosses oak branches that whisper together.
Away in the distance, high in the fey hills,
the Piper raves wildly, the Hounds sob and cry,
the Huntsman is riding in search of his prey.
He sounds his horn, summoning wild things to join him
the night elves are caught like the leaves of November
in a flurry of hooves, dark eyes aglitter,
they ride behind him, seeking their quarry,
the pack draws closer, the horn is calling
the old oak stirs, takes a step, reaches in
and I rush to my door, but too late--
they are gone.

Love letter

Yes, my princess, I want to know the taste of your lips and the feel of your body. But what I want is you, in full. To hear your breathing as you sleep, and see your face in the first faint light of dawn. To wake you with tea and strawberries. To shop with you for groceries and art and furniture. To read beside you, not needing to talk. To lie on our backs in an open field under a hot blue sky, talking about philosophy and watching the clouds. To hold you when you're hurt, to watch over you when you're sick, to carry you when you're too weak to stand. To waltz with you, glorious in evening gown and aglitter with diamonds. To walk through castles and forests with you. To comfort you when you're weeping and to delight in you when you're joyful. To watch the night with you, and sing together to the stars. To know your secret shames and to love you the more. To serve you, evening and morning.

Unfinished poem

I give you an empty kiss, a socially acceptable hug
And am forgotten before I touch the doorknob--
One more task done from your list for the day,
after "call mother", before "fold laundry."

So I get into my sensible car, and drive to my
Steady employment, and do whatever I do there,
And leave there to drive placidly home, where I
Sit in this yellow light, quietly reading,

But sometimes the night calls to me....

Matthieu Thistlehunter

Matthieu is tall, broad-shouldered, stoutly built, as strong as an ox and very nearly as smart. His skin is fair and reddened by the sun; his hair is flaxen, his face is broad, cheery and guileless. He wears a homespun shirt and doeskin breeches.
One day when he was a lad, clearing a patch of thistles on a hill, one of the thistles seized his ankle and started to pull. Matthieu was frightened out of his wits, but he struck with his mattock at whatever was clutching his ankle until it weakened, then jumped back. He tumbled down the rocky slope, banging his head and knees and shoulders, then picked himself up and ran for home. His father and uncles said it must have been a goblin that grabbed him, but Matthieu has never seen a goblin, and he knows thistles are evil and just waiting to get you.
Now, when he sees a thistle plant, he'll sneak up until he gets close to it, then suddenly attack it with his trusty mattock. He's slain many a thistle now.