Elfin

Elfin

In the hush of moon‑kissed glades,
where fern‑fronds sigh and wild thyme spreads,
there flits a silhouette of grace—
elfin, lithe, with laughter’s trace.

Her eyes are dew‑kissed amber pools,
reflecting starlight’s quiet rules;
a whisper curls around her ear,
the rustle of a dream come near.

She wears the moss‑soft velvet of night,
threaded with spider‑silver light,
and every step she takes is sound
like chimes that tremble on the ground.

In British woods where ancient oaks stand,
she weaves a spell with feathered hand,
turning bracken into lace,
and turning sorrow into grace.

So let us raise a humble cheer
for elfin charm that lingers near—
a fleeting glimpse, a tender sigh,
of magic stitched into the sky.