She

She likes to sing as she dances with the fairies. She likes
to play in the mud with the trolls. And at the dinner table, there
is a tiny place-mat for the tinker who lives in the old
shoebox with the kittens in her room.

At night, when God's air brush glitters across his canvas of
eternity, the moth powdered sprites knock at her window seal,
giggling all the while. They have come to take her away. And
then she darts into the night, leaving her sleepy body behind,
to glide on the currents of dreams and wishes. They are everywhere,
these wishes, these dreams, some popping into existence, little
more than transparent glows, as others flicker away. Small
bundles of warmth and coziness, they cover her cheeks and her
toes, melting like cotton candy.

She has traveled in this land before, and upon the webs of
rainbows, she hurries to her destiny. As always, at their
moon drop gates, the elves sweep her toward the midnight ball.
To the drowsy beat of muted drums, she slips,
one-two-three turns, and sinks into a dip before spinning into
the arms of another.

There is no time to pause for as the first
nimbus of light reaches the horizon, the elves and their
dream castle melt away, and she must wake to live another day.
But that is okay, for though the elven spell is thick upon her
limbs, the little purple mite with mayfly wings is there to tug
at the top of her bed covers each morning and sprinkle sleet-
away dust on her eyelids.