Woodland Sprites
A poem
A poem
They are the whispers in the leaves,
the babble of the brook,
the rustle in the underbrush.
In the moon’s icy breath, their wings translucent,
catching the light and fragmenting
into a scintillating rainbow,
to flicker and fade
as quickly as they appear.
In spring, they are the gentle force
that coaxes the buds to bloom.
In summer, they are the heat
that shimmers above the meadows.
In autumn, they ride the crisp breeze,
spinning the leaves.
And when the world is white and still, they slumber,
dreams of the coming spring stirring in their hearts.
Time moves differently in the woodland,
a slow, rhythmic pulse that beats
in harmony with the earth.
The sprites know this rhythm well
they are attuned to the subtle shifts,
the ebb and flow of nature’s song.
To watch them
is to forget the passage of hours,
to become lost in a world
where the air itself
is thick with wonder.
