She sings to me

In a faery raindrop,

Piecing together mistletoe

For the farmer’s bride of chance.

She waves to me

From a pale moonlight walk,

Stepping stones turned to horses,

Goblets and gluts stedfast in her house.

Yearning stops her from seeing you again,

As the crystal cracks have broken once again,

Blotches of her fire spread around the temptress,

Impressed with the stony gravel path lain.