By: Linda M. Crate

perhaps i am but a mad poet
but they say crows lurk
where faeries are
and crows always follow me,
i wonder how many
faeries have watched my step or
danced in my gradens;
sometimes
i feel their whispers of wings and
voices on the back of my neck
but turn and they’ve
already gone away tricky little
blighters that they can
be—
perhaps i am but a mad poet
but when the river sings
it feels magical,
and i almost swear i have wings
when i dance in the sunlit
pools it gurgles to me and even the
rocks seem jealous of our
dance,
but the river doesn’t let me fall;
for he is kinder than most
humans i have met—
of all the dragons i have ever met
none of them are as unkind
as a human without
compassion,
and so i prefer to dance with the faeries and the magic and
listen to the whispers of the river
calming and sweeter than sugar upon the tongue;
i’ve learned virtue in
caring
for injured animals and kindness by
tending to hurt butterflies,
and magic by following
my own wild heart which cannot be caged by my
ribs and freely dances with the river
with whom i sometimes
think
wishes to court me.