She still believes in fairies.
They write her notes in the garden
Populated with the homes she’s made for them,
Where occasionally a wildflower
Will bloom, bright and blue,
Half-expected, that welcome, noble guest,
Around which the fairies will dance
Forever through the night.
She’ll hear their music.
I will, too, sometimes – rarely –
Though it’ll never sound the same,
Because that is what time does to one,
Layer by layer like a sandstorm
Stripping you of every ounce of faith,
From which you once so freely drank
Of that most holy of chalices.
She drinks too greedily from that fount.
Soon, she’ll wonder why that cup,
Which once overfloweth,
Is looking emptier by the day,
Youth, she’ll lament,
Lasts but a summer.
She knows that summer is ending soon.