I once plucked a beach rock from his watery bed;
beautiful, once brushed of sand, he did not complain,
but now that he’s home, he just lies there–dull and plain.
Somewhere along the dirt path home he must have died.
A lifeless grey replaced the impossible red,
so I tossed him with the others once he dried.

You only wanted to touch the fairy that you saw
at dusk last night to see if she was truly real.
You wanted to hold her in your hand, to feel
the flutter of her wings, because you could not trust
your eyes–to prove she was more than dream-woven awe.
The moment she was captured, though, she crumpled into dust.

The soap bubbles too, magic impossible things,
conjured with a wand and a breath of firm command,
delight admiring eyes but vanish on the hand.
Enjoyed, unowned, the bloodred stone remaining wet,
the fairies rising on near-invisible wings–
all would be your pleasure, but none will be your pet.