Twinkling with mirth,
I played beside the fairy pond,
An ebony cricket chirped,
And peepers sang merrily all the day.
I knelt on the soft green moss,
And plucked the lovely trillium
To make a garland for my hair…
The air was still, sun warm on my skin,
The buzzing of a tree toad,
Among the million silent sounds
Of hidden life among the grasses.
The water was dark and still,
Leaves floating languidly on the surface,
Hiding places for a fat green frog
That popped his head through long enough
To grab a lazy dragonfly with his tongue.
Endless summer days
Beside the fairy pond,
I sink my toes into the mud,
And watch the bees hovering
About the honeysuckle.
I wait, breathlessly,
For the fairies to come.
I can almost hear their wings
Rustling softly behind the trees,
The faint, silvery sound of tiny bells.
Will they come? Will they come?
It seems to me they did come once,
Long ago on a sultry afternoon,
With the sun setting behind the hill.
I saw them, two or three, I think,
But I heard them first,
Their laughter like tinkling chimes,
Then I saw them, gossamer wings,
Floating just over the surface
Of the fairy pond, close enough to touch.
I held my breath and closed my eyes,
Perhaps for a second too long,
For when I opened them they were gone,
And I was alone by the pond.
They never did come again,
But I still went down every day,
And I go down even now
To wait for them and
Play beside the fairy pond.