I am but a gleaming end
An epilogue in ice and frost
to lay in slumber upon branch and bend
I am but a passer by
my time checked by waning day
Limited though I rule this sky
I am but the last farewell
the closing line to the wheele
the clocks turning, I hear my bell
I am but a moment’s thrill
Though my touch can bring such glee
The spring, it comes, to thaw my chill
And though the warmth draws a tear
I pay it no mind
My time will come, again, next year.
Be careful who you sit on.
They may not like it very much.
They may tell you what’s wrong,
pain, sorrow and such …
Some may pinch and bite you,
Twist until you bleed.
Others might tickle,
see you laugh until you plead.
Some may crawl inside you!
Unknowing to the eye,
And say strange things,
to all the passers by …
The submissive little ones
may simply just crush and bend.
And still others yet, meet their sorrowed end.
Deep in the forest of Ironbirck Grove,
Lived a small faery named Amin Rove.
She lived off the fruit of the Orange Blossom trees
And she made all her friends of the birds, and the bees
She was innocent and free, and her heart – it was wild
But her touch was gentle and he temper quite mild
She guarded the forests, its lands and its creatures
Tended its growth, and cultured its features
It was a great sorrow, she met an early grave
Though try as they might, none could save
No matter how far her body may be
Her heart lives on in Ironbirck’s trees
So next time you’re walking with Jackson, or Kotch
Remember, Amin Rove is keeping her watch.