The Ocean quakes whenever you fly near
me as though Spring arrived early and never
will leave. You can ferment the tide and tear
the Hollow’s fabric with little endeavor.
Fresh leaves cannot outshine the glitter of
your dress. The Sky covets the blue of your
eyes, and the Sea quivers to rise above
the shore, embrace you, and ride the downpour.
Must fairies follow traditions that doom
us lives apart? What use are wings if they
cannot fly me over walls, beyond flumes
to the grove where you stay, my clever fay?
No bubble can presume us apart for Spring
arrived–when you came–I received new wings.
