The Legend of the Blue Lady

She’ll pass through the wood
In her midnight-blue gown.
Always she visits
The sleepy old town.
Many have seen her
But none know her name.
She does not speak to them;
It’s all the same.
Folk say her weeping
Brings trees from the ground,
Tears like a river—
O! mournful, the sound.
A lad claimed she joined him
On a moonlit walk…
But he can’t describe her,
So how can he talk?
One thing is for certain,
She reigns in the night,
Pale as a moonbeam,
To some a great fright.
Good mothers tell children
Not to stay out late.
One doesn’t know
When the Lady doth wait.


“Come Sleep.”

The Sun is setting;
Roots of trees
Creep ‘round my
Tired bones.

All the Nymphs have
Bowed their heads—
The Daisy and
The Rose.

Calling me,
They ask for help—
Or ask for me
To come

With them to Sleep
Until the spring,
For they and I
Are one.


Leaves will change
From green to gold,
Like they do every year—

But I cannot
Watch them crisp
Without shedding a tear.

The cricket-chorus
Will be gone,
Our bushes will be still.

When frost sets in,
Ice-cold like death,
I will absorb the chill.

Even lovely things
Need sleep
To flourish in the day.

Flowers bow
Their graceful heads,
And I wish they would stay.


Two broken souls met
On the road less traveled.
One longed to forget
That he’d come unraveled.

The other soul, aching,
Cursed up at the sky.
Her every step shaking,
She cried out, “Why?”

Their paths met at last,
And the silence was loud.
Their breath came out fast
In the frost, forming cloud.

Walk alone in your pain,
And you might think it fair.
Meet a soul, and it’s plain:
You were going nowhere.


Old watches of silver
In glass cases, ticking.
How many days have
These timepieces seen?

How many gloved hands
Went to them for guidance?
How many places
Have these treasures been?

Their desperate ticking
Is making you itch
To run paths forgotten
And times far away.

Gears are still turning,
Memories burning.
Go check the time
Before it goes astray.

Photo Credit Mariella Hunt

Wood of Unrest

Stars above flash in their envy;
The Stream below’s crying out loud.
Even the Lady Moon turns away,
Concealing her face in a shroud.

A body of crimson Trees shiver.
Cricket-song rises, protest!
An ancient Wood full of enchantment
Knows no spell to give it rest.

Are these the days of Beginning–
Or is it the start of the End?
We could not comprehend the green,
But let us now pretend.

Why would a Firefly flicker,
Or a Vining-plant tangle in plight?
Were they not made in perfection?
Wouldn’t their burden be light?

What has a Flower to pine for?
What makes Stars fall from above?
Perhaps the answer is simple:
In their beauty, they want Love.

True Love

“May I have this dance?”
Said the ancient oak
To the pine-tree grand,
She who never spoke.

“Won’t you move with me?
For our roots are strong,
And we both have seen
Moments far too long.”

Then he held his breath,
Hoping she’d agree.
O! the wait was death
To this wizened tree!

Pine-tree trembled, shy;
Oak resolved to wait.
Let the years go by,
For their love was fate.

Stargazing Again

Better watch your step,
Stargazing again!
Pay attention to the sign.
Don’t focus so much on rhyme.
You’ll wake up—but when?

Stuck in your own head,
You’ll soon fall behind.
There’s a trap you can’t escape
When your thoughts are not in shape.
Seek, but you won’t find.

Soon the Moon will turn.
Stars, they come and go.
Better look down at your map;
It’s forgotten on your lap.
Perhaps then you’ll know.