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Footprints Under My Window

Oft have I awoken in the fresh morning air When the sun has weaved Her rays of gold And opened the mist frozen petals with little pools For sweet bees to bathe in. Then have my eyes seen Littlest of the little footprints appear, As if from the melting mist – Little tiny impressions, so magical Beneath my window That greets the wide, wide world. I have lain long and late Oblivious to the creatures That have caused them to be there. But at times, when the icy winter wind Has lashed out steely currents on my face, I have heard them whisper – Sweet, soft, magical whispers – That have ridden on the cold night air And carried themselves to me, In vain my eyes have searched them Beneath mulberry and rose, Or some hidden path to fairy folk, A path to fairyland. In vain have I searched and asked young eyes Questions fancied from the thoughts of silken footprints. And all eyes, yes all Have laughed vaguely, sneeringly Some even sad and caught in a haze – Eyes that have told the sad tale Of a fairyland that exists no more. And yet have I seen them lie lifeless – Tinkling, shimmering, almost fading into the moonlight, That have melted from the mist, Enclosed in the Sun’s first golden threads, Fall softly – ever so silently – There, right where the window opens, Letting in the wind from beneath the mulberry And the breeze that lies nestled in oblivion Beneath the wild, wild, rose.