Little Elf-Girl Lost

(Sonnet I: The Birth)

She is born of the fey winds and the misty leaves
Of golden-pillow tree branches in which she lives
Her hair flows a soft stream with eyes like little runes
Skin so smooth sparkling as if stars in quiet noons

She rouses from a nest made of potpourri bits
Yawning observing as far as her mind permits
The only sound are her breaths and the ringdoves’ coos
Forming into a song that no one can refuse

She finally realizes that lives abound
In the woodland where she dwells as she turns around
Hummingbirds and fireflies frolicking in the air
In this quiet solitude life can be so fair

But suddenly as the moon casts its nightly spell
She slowly curls in fear and then she feels unwell