Dryad Weeping on a Fallen Tree

Sitting under the spell of living oaks,

dryad sits on a tree fallen and dead.

Through the canopy falls the sun’s gold;

empathetic warmth and just so bright.

She is dressed in a splendid mourning gown,

sewn with chlorophyll and splendors’ fingers.

Her large green eyes are crystal-like;

scenes of a tree’s life play within.

Mist rises like fairy soldiers’ ghosts

beneath her dainty and barefooted feet.

Tears merge into silent waterfalls

and her heart beats low like owl wings.

A rustling puts a crack in the silence

and dryad looks down at the petite sound:

Leaves covered a seed, covered a growing tree;

nature is cycles, is fairy spuds to winter snow.

And young tree sprouts where mother spring

and father sun foster new life.

Such lessons come to each dryad in youth;

they have come to her in this ephemeral light.

A nearby butterfly takes to air,

its dazzle and frailty the wink of beauty’s eye.

With compassion it alights upon dryad’s shoulder;

a gesture of fresh happiness to a broken heart.

Dryad slides from the lifeless oak,

aglow in the hue of newest wisdom.

She dances off to darker wood, and butterfly ascends;

reverie folds up and fades from her brightest eyes.

(From the book Kairos)