A pretty thing beneath a rose
Long, golden hair and purple clothes
But no sweet smile did cross her face
Silver tears fell in its place
I paused a while, asked, "Why so sad?
Warm sun, blue sky, you should be glad."
She whispered soft as I leaned near,
"It is the winter's cold I fear."
I wondered just what I could do
To help her see the dark months through
Then I recalled, in my room,
A pot of violets, in full bloom
I told her this; she smiled and said,
"It is a place to rest my head."
And this is how it came to be
The story of the fae and me
April
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