My faerie hides in the study
living behind a different book each day,
can pop out from anywhere,
likes to come along on walks
riding invisibly on shoulders or lurking
in the depths of shadows.
My faerie croons strange songs,
brings me starlight in a metal dish,
scents the room with thyme and cinnamon,
take me back in time but never forward.
My faerie teases me and hides for days.
I do not know which form
it will take next. Water’s taffeta,
air’s vestments of cloud, the gold
of flame or the soft loam of earth.
Tree height or butterfly small.,
it has many shapes and sizes.
It will be the death of me.