Once in a while
fold back that vanity of solo-dreams
and enter behind
the phantom where hangs concealed
a land of angelic
enchantment where spirited dancing
is made so attractive,
anticipate rapture in an advancement
toward fairy contact.

Seek Flora's cloud,
Queen of the Feys, she of fine stardust
dresses in smiles,
finest of ribbons perfumed with musk
light her prettiness
in spritely cascades, she of kiss- curls
bound up in brightness,
is there now and waits to be whirling
with you in delight.

Ask her to dance,
ethereal music embroiders her glance,
and as you unwind
earth-bound views unlock for fanciful
paths to entrancing
Togetherland that, angel-hued, sways
in gossamer-hold
of beckoning hands who yours favour
for a mystical duo.

Dancing with angels
is high on the list for poets who fancy
time spent with muses
so not to be missed is the first chance
to step on Fey's floor
and take her in dance as magic occurs
when bliss heightens
the urge to write and make of words
something delightful.