I’ve been told, though never seen,
That once each month in moonlight
Can be found some other beings
With eyes like gems in sunlight.

Though they seem to want to play,
Their goal remains each spring:
Go trick some children out in day
To catch in faerie rings.

The aos sí will keep their mounds
Free of mortal wandering;
At night you might just hear the sound
Of pixie folk a’ pondering.

If you listen to the sidhe,
Then hope may never find you.
Mischief is what’s in their creed
Like white-thorn bush in late June.

The Celts know not to dare disturb
These faerie circles’ kind,
‘Lest they find that deadly herb
Within their blood entwined.



September 25, 2013

The best kind of things
Are the ones that don’t
Make sense until you see
The ins and outs of what
Goes on inside.

Open me up,
Create a cross section
Of this flesh and bone,
And count the rings:
One, two, three.
There are wonders in
This world that one
Can only find beneath
The layers of time.

Muted shades of
Autumnal leaves float
In blustery breezes,
Striking my face with a
Surprising force. The sun
May penetrate the thin
Layer of grey clouds
Drifting above me, but
It can never pierce the
Bark on my trunk.

My heartwood stirs at
The sound of your voice.