The Grove of Wild Plum
I

The Seelie come when spring is near,
To moon-swept glades where laughter sings,
To toast the thaw with honeyed cheer.
Plum trees bloom by silvered wings.

A flower of blush, a dream that glows.
Blossoms sweeten air with longing’s breath,
Beneath each bough, this fae court grows—
And tempts the heart to dance with death.

The court dance in circles, veiled in light,
When petals fall like whispered vows,
Their gowns like dusk, their eyes like night.
On roots where love and magic rouse,

They pluck the fruit with gleeful grace,
Then vanish swift without a trace.

II

But not all groves are filled with song—
Some bloom when winter lovers fall and weep.
These trees stand where the dark is strong.
Their fruit ripen too soon with hungers deep,

The Unseelie tend it with a smile,
They bid you taste, they dare you stay—
Their words as warm as frost is vile.
And plum by plum, your past decays.

Some say these trees can part the veil,
But to taste an early plum is to forget
If plucked beneath the moonlight pale,
What mortal time your lips have met.

So know this truth before you try
What feeds on love may let it die.

III

Still, mortals leave their gifts with care—
and whisper wishes into perfumed air
To gain favor by honeyed milk, or braid of hair,
Kneeling beneith the Plum Fae’s tricky stare.

If you pray the fae will bless your flame,
Without knowing what dream takes root
They may speak your fortune, name by name,
Yet not reveal the price of the fruit.

For Seelie charm or Unseelie jest,
No mortal knows what pact is spun—
A blessing beating in beauty chest,
Or love undone before it’s won.

For every kiss and every lie—
Begins beneath a plum-lit sky.