The fairies have fled.

They left their glitter

in the grass like shattered mica,

their wings, a languid lacquer

above the municipal flowerbeds.

We applaud their departure.

The sky is prettier

without their evanescent traffic,

their demanding little faces

flattened on our screens at dusk.

They were pebbly.

They bit the children

who tried to cup them.

They replaced our sugar

with salt, our milk

with moonlight.

Now the garden is glossy

with their absence,

each petal a polished lesion,

each lawn a green screen

for missing them.

We clap until our palms

go raw and pink

as peeled fruit.

The fairies, away,

leave only this:

a stain of light

where the air smarts,

a disorder so brilliant

we misapprehend it

for seasons.