I like the stars. It’s the illusion of permanence,
I think. I mean, they’re always flaring up and caving in
and going out. But from here, I can pretend…
I can pretend that things last.
I can pretend that lives last longer than moments.
Gods come, and gods go.
Mortals flicker and flash and fade.
Worlds don’t last; and stars and galaxies are transient,
fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies
and vanish into cold and dust.
But I can pretend.
Touch the wooden gate in the wall
you never saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through, walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door, as a knocker
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
If it tells you that it is dirty,
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can, ease its pain.
From the back garden you will be
able to see the wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.
Once through the garden you will be in the wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-growth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman.
She may ask for something; give it to her.
She will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry.
The ferry-man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger,
he will be free to leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)
If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.
Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.
Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).
There is a worm at the heart of the tower;
that is why it will not stand.
When you reach the little house, the place your
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
“This is a poem about what to do if you find yourself
in a Fairy Tale. It is guaranteed to work.
If you find yourself in a Fairy Tale, and,
despite following these instructions to the letter,
you are eaten by wolves or lost, never to be seen again,
the publisher will refund the cost of this CD.”