A Pixie at play

A pixie moves where shadows play,
light-footed at the break of day.
She hums along the mossy ground,
a silver laugh, a fleeting sound.

Her cloak is stitched from spider thread,
her crown from leaves the oak has shed.
She drinks from cups of dew at dawn,
then vanishes as night drifts on.

No gold she hoards, no throne, no fame,
the wind alone will speak her name.
Yet those who glimpse her dancing free,
will never doubt what eyes can’t see.