By Vivi Sojorhn

 

So young, I don’t remember when

I learned of peeling mica very thin

Pioneers took the grandest stones

To make the windows before glass glowed

The mica sparkled as if it were gold

And fooled more than a few until arriving

At the scale to receive their kah-ching

Yet to a child the mica was from fae hidden

In their glimmering home and was a bidding

To imagine my world could be worth  defending

Just because I could spy into theirs through

What earth is made of — a glistening sheer of

Hope.