Snow has wilted under rain; a frigid rain. Splish splash, my feet stumbling in dark puddles of water. This is not the rain I was born with—the balmy pouring rain of the tropics. Shall I pack my suitcase and leave this place to wander the land? Like a gypsy. Like a fairy gypsy forever in search of light.
Where do the Fae wait? Somewhere amidst the greenest of grasses abetted by the sun. If you ever come to my garden in spring time you’ll see what I mean. In the light of the moon with a soft breeze blowing through the trees and flowers, if you are very quiet and cautious, you may witness the fairies laughing and dancing in a small clearing. I have seen the circles they leave in the grass from their joyful dancing on many occasions.
People once believed that mushrooms growing in a circle followed the path made by fairies dancing in a ring. But mushrooms are nowhere to be seen in my garden these days (why isn’t everybody going crazy over the vanishing of wild mushrooms?) Winter and dark cold nights don’t allow for this. And that’s the reason why faeries have to follow the way of the geeses during the arrival of fall.
They go away in the hope of finding beautiful meadows where the sun shines, and there are many thousands of flowers. The fairies that are left behind in this cold frigid land are never happy (have I said that before?) Poor dears, battling in the gale! Hail and ice, and ice and hail.