The fairies whispered to me
under the light of the moon.
Stories that had been and stories that would be.
The flowers all bloomed
for the promise of more,
more tastes of love
and heartbreak,
future generations' lore.
My pen was anxious
for the stories we would make,
my paper jealous.
Oh!, the grin I had made.
My fairies, paper, pen, and I
had plenty of time
for such
Garden-Side Thoughts.