She hangs around hedges and
tangles in old men’s beards,
not caring what she wears;
she’ll be there to adorn the
thorns especially near dawn.
Her fickle fingers flick crystals,
never miss a chance to
dance on every protuberance.
The dalliance of her sparkle
kills off pests, and gnats plummet,
spiders sleep,
are glazed white.
She bites deep – but man just
gazes spellbound,
taking her ephemeral
beauty in at his leisure;
late at night,
and out of the
site of the censuring sun.
