The Nameless

They are born in the Southern Hemisphere
In the season of most brutal heat.
They hate the heat and cocoon
Themselves against it,
Though it feeds them.
It gives them strength
For the time that is to come.

When that day arrives
They migrate north
Where trees are turning colors:
Shades of red and orange
Purple, gold.

They want to escape the heat
The heat that birthed them
The warmth, the raging fire
That rages within.

Where the cooling sensations
Of the weather there
Bring them relief.

They are playful.

They want to get out and feel the chill of Autumn
Which drives away the heat
Which pushes them on.
And makes them grow.

And when the season of shortest days
And longest nights appears
They are grateful.

And then, they are playful.

They cover the ground in white
In the color of unicorns
And wedding gowns.

They create great fangs
That hang from the gutters
outside my house
Spiky and crystalline.

They blow, and with them
Move the trees. We don’t know
It’s their breath, but it is.

They are full of crispness
And firmness. They are direct
And they capture your attention
With their games.

They have no names.

They are not known as undines are
As dragons or the Fair Folk;
They are not Elementals.
Their magic is only for play.

But they are the beauty of the season
When it’s so easy to get downtrodden
In amongst the grey skies and
The studded tires and the extra sweaters.

They come to us and bring us joy
And pleasure. They make the world
Shine, and give us hope that
Tomorrow, again, will be warmer.
But until then, there is beauty.