(Charm #9 from Practical Thaumaturgy)
Your back's the color of the fields
Dried out for winter; or soft bark,
Or trampled snow, bright fish, straw, clay,
Slate, stone, a wild hill in the dark.
Your eye is yellow as the moon
At the horizon; gray as foam,
Or green or copper as some cold
Woodland where silent hunters roam.
I see I fill you with contempt.
I cannot prove your feeling wrong.
But understand, at least, that I,
Like you, am not where I belong.