dryad (for Ne----)

There is a wild and delicate tree
near the center of my garden.
It does not grow.

All the long nights of this age
(this age knows more nights than days)
I wander the counties of the places of dream.
I gather the philosophies of monsters and the names of stars.
I gather bits of song and verse, snatched from alien tongues.
I gather fairy tales too wonderful and terrifying for waking remembrance.

I bring them back to my garden.
I lay the wonders I have found at the base of the tree.
I put my lips to the root,
and whisper something like a faithless prayer.

"Ask greatness of me, and greatness I deliver.
Assume failure from me, and failure you will find.
The whole of the hope and the fate of my being
is cast from the light in your eyes."

On rare occasion, I look up
to find her hidden in the branches,
listening.

But dryads do not answer prayers.