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08-25-02, to Dryad
Birthday Wishes
The birthday nymph flitters and flutters, eventually alighting on a stump.
She clears her throat. “A-hem! A-hem” (as always, a very dainty, delicate clearing)
“A Poem... by Birthday Nymph.” She bows quickly and kicks the long green and brown train of her gown behind her.
I think that I shall never see
Dryad lovlier than thee.
A nymph who lives behind the bark,
and answers only on a lark,
To the man whose mouth is pressed,
against her lovely, leafy breast,
Which shows no sign of years or age
as she slowly turns the page,
Of the book that is her life,
Filled with joy, devoid of strife.
Birthdays are told by fools like me,
But we wish the best for Dryads like thee.
Thank you. And she leaves, falling from the stump, barking her shin against the edge as she trips over the extra fabric of her gown, which no longer looks quite so much like a tree as she thought it would.
