Worthy Witness

We built a fairy’s house yesterday morning when mist rose from the river and the sun was hidden in fluffy white clouds.  The early morning serenade of a bird’s song woke us from a fretful night’s sleep, and we dressed before breakfast to build her a suite.

The grass was wet and tickled our bare feet.  We winced when we crossed the stone path to the tumbled-down tree.  Inside its shell of bark was the perfect start for a fairy’s house; a tree house.  We hammered and fashioned stairs using splits of wood.  Next was the platform for the rooms.  It didn’t need a roof, nestled so snug in the hole of a tree, so we gave it a canopy instead.  The kitchen, bathroom and bedroom had a great room effect, but we sectioned the bathroom for privacy please.

Our furniture we carried in a wired wicker basket.  It was miniature and beautiful; there was even a vase.  We decorated and feng-shui(d) and made it just perfect.  A vision of purple wisteria popped in my head, and I thought of it sitting alone in the shed.   I left you to pick some violets and daisies and went to retrieve them knowing you would not see them.

We laughed at our work when the magic was done, and danced near the frog pond, our wits near undone.  We festooned our table with paper red hearts and sat down, so happy, with blueberry tarts.  We waited and waited and waited some more, but fairies don’t come in a morning of sun.  They ride in the evenings on backs of butterflies and light their homes by the twinkle of  fireflies.