Where the Fairies Still Live
by Morning Star

As a child, I dreamed of belonging.
In the garden’s secret space,
I’d sit beneath the fairy tree—
I know now it was a silver birch.

My mother would call me in for tea,
but I would climb and hide inside,
wrapped in the hush of leaves,
where sunlight crowned the roof
and warmed my little temple of light.

I sat there, too, beneath the moon,
held by silver stillness,
safe in her glow.

One day, my mother went away—
and with her, the tether to home.
But in that silence bloomed adventure:
from tree limbs to open fields,
to horses grazing in a meadow.

I spoke to them,
and somehow—they understood.
Their eyes held gentler worlds.

Tiny fairies I once glimpsed
danced in moss and morning dew.
And just the other day,
the river whispered back a truth—
as I sailed along the Teme,
I saw one again.

A shimmer on a leaf.
A flicker of wing.
Proof that I had never imagined
what the heart remembers.