At twilight when the wild things wake
around my weary feet
when owls are drifting off to hunt
and all the earth smells sweet,
I walk beyond the sycamores
where shadows meet starlight,
to wonder what at close of day
it is that shines so bright.

A robin with his feathers fluffed
is looking satisfied
as crickets sit about his feet
with spiders alongside
and sat aloft on robin’s back
a fairy singing low,
with bells adorning feet and hands
on limbs as white as snow.

I hear the robin call her Belle
then puff his scarlet chest,
prompting the crickets now to sing
with vim and renewed zest,
while beetles dance with ladybirds,
their jeweled wings polished well
with spots of green or black as ink,
in this light who can tell.

Her bells ring out a symphony
within my garden walls,
while I eavesdrop this charming scene
where tender starlight falls.
The air is softly magical
for who has gazed before
upon this sight before my eyes
I silently encore.