(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.