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In a country garden
near a worn out gate
I feel magic
in the air.
As the breeze blows by
and the morning dawns
there are dew
drops in her hair.
She's a tiny thing
on a toadstool tall
gazing in a
looking glass.
Small booted feet
wearing shades of pink
such a pretty
little lass.
She has golden wings
long flowing hair
she flies from
bloom to bloom.
Chasing bumble bees
across garden paths
on a sunny
afternoon.
Rides a maple leaf
down a running stream
trails her fingers
in cold water.
On this lazy day
in the month of May
she is December's
daughter.
With a tinkling laugh
an occasional giggle
she brightens a
cloudy day.
As she dons her hat
on a tilted head
and quickly flies
away.
