Poetry With Hart

The sun hides from view,
what day is it anymore?
Bloom quiet dusklight

My branches slowly
form limbs again, though tulips
still grow from my hair.

It’s then I hear the
lantern light conversing with
the travel-worn tree.

In one, the voice is
melody eager light, the
other steady, warm.

“She’s a long way from
home,” the lantern says briskly,
each word crisp cut snap.

Enchantment given
form, the tree relies, “It may
be yet a blessing.”

He seeks to soothe fear
rising dark to engulf me,
grinning face in bark.

I fear I’ve gone mad,
I wish to reply, silence
stealing words away

pausing to enjoy
quiet company, chosen
family of faewilds.

“It is through the mud
I was rooted, Gaia made
and so I remain

A bridge between
life and the Fae court,” he said.
Clover shade shining.

Morning laughter trills
garden air alight with sounds
of growth and soil.

Sweetform musk sans name,
sound and smell converge, chilled
in the crimson dawn.