A Dance for Blythe Spirits
Mead made from meadows that bloom in my mind
At the top of tall mountains, whispered with wings
Where honied winds blow with sunshine entwined
And snow weeps down laughing in hundreds of springs
Witches Broom,
River Birch,
Bitter Brush
Burdock
Brew it in deep vats, seal it in sapphire
It will bloom in the darkness growing profound
Bubbling with impulse and sure to inspire
It will open vast vistas when we pass it around
Mountain Mahogany,
Lupine and Larkspur,
Chokecherry,
Currents
Of red
More than just drink, this mist of the mountain
Brings dreams that dance and transcend
Passed hand to hand, all baptized in it’s fountain
Company, fellowship, friends
Sagebrush and Blue Bells
Yarrow and Juniper
Columbine
Aspen
And
Pine
©Edwina Peterson Cross
At the top of tall mountains, whispered with wings
Where honied winds blow with sunshine entwined
And snow weeps down laughing in hundreds of springs
Witches Broom,
River Birch,
Bitter Brush
Burdock
Brew it in deep vats, seal it in sapphire
It will bloom in the darkness growing profound
Bubbling with impulse and sure to inspire
It will open vast vistas when we pass it around
Mountain Mahogany,
Lupine and Larkspur,
Chokecherry,
Currents
Of red
More than just drink, this mist of the mountain
Brings dreams that dance and transcend
Passed hand to hand, all baptized in it’s fountain
Company, fellowship, friends
Sagebrush and Blue Bells
Yarrow and Juniper
Columbine
Aspen
And
Pine
©Edwina Peterson Cross
posted by Unknown @ 1:43 PM
2 comments
The 
2 Comments:
You mention Sagebrush and Blue Bells Oh, Winnie, I haven't seen Bluebells since I was a kid in Wales. I have a background of Bluebells on my PC. The sight of them each morning when I power up the computer makes me happy.
Your poem is beautiful and written with style. Thank you again for changing my ordinary PC into a magic lantern of words.
Vi
Vi, there are Bluebells all over the mountains of Utah and Colorado. On the trail above our house in Leadville, at the edge of the Holy Cross Wilderness, there was a hollow that filled each spring with thousands and thousands of bluebells. The entire small glen turned blue.
My little daughter asked if the Bluebells ever rang. “Yes,” I said, but only the Faeries can hear them.” “HOW, do they ring?” asked April, her eyes nearly the same shade as the flowers, “they are so . . . soft!”
“Uh hu,” said Lezlie, six-years-old and wise. “Bluebells ring very softly, but look, there are so many here that when they ring together, the Faeries in Denver can hear them!” “ARE there Faeries in Denver?” asked April. “There are Faeries everywhere,” said Lezlie. And I, as sappy as the tall pines, had to take off my sunglasses and wipe my eyes.
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