i take to the stairs,

and walk to the shelves.

opening the cupboard,

i grab cups for the elves.

though i don't judge,

i do wonder why.

for they live in mugs,

and mornings they rise.

they dine in the yard

and bathe there, too.

perhaps they are a bard,

playing what they do.

they jam to the strays

and waltz with the ants.

i see them many days,

scared of joining their dance.

though it seems odd,

how they boogie down.

i watch in the sod,

surrounded in their porcelain town.

they won't be disturbed,

never moved by me.

their teacups are fragile,

the ballads are soothing.