there is this little nymph of a fairy
that lives between the lines of the poem
takes daily strolls through the stanzas
nature opened in sonnet the day she was born

she takes the written word in so gracefully
raises her glass high in a toast
tells those who will listen all the mysteries
of the poems that stir her soul

if this fairy ever needed a reason
for the rhyme, the time would be now
these darkened days cry for desperate ways
where only a fairy can tell

the purity of the poetic essence
the fragrance that permeates the unknown
the heat that burns in the written word
in the poems that she calls her own