Wreathed in ethereal mists, she flits
To and fro, and side to side.
Her slender form, a gentle caress,
Light as the breeze supporting her.

Her crescent wings beat softly,
Glittering in the moonlight.
Fragile and frail, yet for it
All the more entrancing.

In a realm shaped by silver hands,
She dwells sheltered and cherished.
A spill of sunlight, a trickle of midnight,
Light and dark in a dazzling cascade.

The gentle clackety-clack of leaves suspended,
Caught by chilly autumn winds.
The babble of water over pebbles worn smooth,
Embodying Nature's ambient symphony.

Blessed by the shining face above,
She dances, among her sisters eleven,
Dancing the dance of seasons,
A flawless cycle of renewal and rebirth.

From the cold earth, she rises slowly,
Her pale figure poised elegantly.
Flinging her arms outward, she wilts,
To sink gratefully upon a bed of silver.

Few mortals chance upon these sacred grounds,
Fewer still, can discern and bear witness,
To the slight form, enchanting contours,
Of a silver-winged Maiden of the Mist.

For if you do not venture to their home
Of light and dark and moon betwixt,
With good heart and kind spirit within,
She hovers on the edge of vision, fleeting.