Lament of a Summer Faerie

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I’m longing for him now

longing in whispers spoken

low on crystalline snowflakes,

My love, my Jack

My Jack in the Green.

With arms empty and cold

and whiteness that suffocates

I listen, closely to the wind

for his voice

his voice, warm like honey

his voice soft and velvet

like the green of his moss

the green of his palms

resting on my back

as I lay in his emerald arms.

But all I hear is the harsh voice

of his dark brother

trying to sneak into my thoughts,

this other Jack

this Jack of the Frost

with his shrieking whistles

that blow down my shutters

and invade my cold bed

giving me dreams of ice

and white, cold glass

where his eyes appear

in the glacial spaces

between the frozen teardrops

of his hibernal hooded head.

Oh my Jack, my green love

why must you leave me so

to crawl beneath

this cruel white blanket

while you sleep

deeper than my poor little soul

can delve,

I miss your heat

the touch of your breath

on my tired wings

at the end of a day

filled with dancing in your glen

and rolling in your fields,

I miss the kiss of morning

on my dewy lips

as you waken me

to another Midsummer’s day.

But here in this hollow

where I huddle with the ivy

the only promise left

is the cold green of its fingers

wrapping themselves

around my naked antlers

shivering at the sound

of the frost one

curling his arms above

this tree of sanctuary.

My crying is not heard.

My weeping is in vain.

I am alone and wanting

waiting to smell

the first light of Spring,

his first breath of dawn

in the sedge of meadow

in the moss of woodland

in the tall ears

of my head,

The first sigh

of his awakening

will be the music of my life

the melody of my existence

the savior of my spirit,

I shall drink in

his air

as the tree drinks in

the sun

I shall sink my long toes

into his velvet hair

and caress the length

of his viridian expanse.

Oh Jack, my Jack

my green and lovely companion

when I finally squeeze through

the door of Beltane

into the gift of your summer

all these frigid, bitter plates of

soulless scraps

I have been fed

by the hoary hands

of Jack of the Frost

shall become so much mist

in the gleam of your

sun drenched eyes

and we shall glide as one again

along the lichen river banks

and fly above the heather

that dances to your pipes

and my life will be whole

as I sink into the yielding folds

Of my Jack

My Jack in the Green.

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