Friday, June 30th, 2017

Which is the way to faerie-land?

These are the wild days.

 

 

In this late June’s late noon haze,

 

 

we wander through the wetness left

 

 

by June’s heavy rains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We meander through the puddled woodlands,

 

 

troubling the mud and

 

 

muddying the waters.

 

 

And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are the wild days.

 

 

This is our own small wild place.

 

 

And this is how we play and these are our faces.

 

 

And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We ramble down between the misty trees

 

 

to play. These are the wild days

 

 

of mid-summer when faeries play

 

 

like children and small humans become fae.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is here we find our magic place.

 

 

It is here we find this great white faerie house

 

 

hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited

 

 

by friends.

And these are our friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.

And this is our river. And these are our bodies.

And these are our ways. And this is our home.

And these are the wild days.

 

 

My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are the wild days.

In this late June’s late noon haze,

we wander through the wetness left

by June’s heavy rains.

 

We meander through the puddled woodlands,

troubling the mud and

muddying the waters.

And we wander: mother, son, & daughter.

 

These are the wild days.

This is our own small wild place.

And this is how we play and these are our faces.

And this is how we keep the small child’s wild ways.

 

We ramble down between the misty trees

to play. These are the wild days

of mid-summer when faeries play

like children and small humans become fae.

 

It is here we find our magic place.

It is here we find this great white faerie house

hidden in the weeds. This house is inhabited

by friends.

And these are our friends.

 

And these are our woods. And these are our bridges.

And this is our river. And these are our bodies.

And these are our ways. And this is our home.

And these are the wild days.

 

My children are arrows, and magic the bow. And I am the quiver.

 

—Jessica Rose Shanahan

Nov. 14, 2017

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