Weeding, uprooting the undesired, collecting their bruised green bodies in one fisted mass, transferring them to the bin.
Pausing on the stream of bricks, eyes slowly tracking rightward to glimpse, just paces away, beneath the half-laden arch —
Little faerie spirit, little winged soul, dressed in a gown of moss and cobwebs,
Sipping from the slender red tubes of native honeysuckle, hovering before each in turn,
Wings a smudged vapor of motion.
She turns mid-air, pauses and flits closer,
A mere pace away,
Entranced, we face each other…
She reaches into an elfin pocket,
Withdraws a miniaturizing glass to view me,