I spent a year
In a pixie’s garden
Where winter washes
Over the lilacs
In a wave of crystal frost,
And summer surges
In the heavy, humid air
With the bustle
Of a thousand bees
Filling their combs past the brim.
And always
Nestled in the shade
Of an oaken giant,
Cloaked in shadow
And midmorning dew,
Was the resting body
Of the green-thumbed fairy,
A sultry body
I always knew,
I never saw.
He Who Wanders 