At the end of Summer, the Wistfuls are born.
The Wistful Faeries are the memories of the flowers that visited us. They live in the glads that echo all that blooms from Spring to Summer
Each tells a story of becoming and fade. The bleeding heart sit fresh in newness and shade; Faery compassion drips like dew. Sweet Iris sees all and stands in the rain; Frills and strength combined in perfect balance.
Lily, with daily renewal, climbs to celebrate the Sun. Rays of bright thoughts leading to a pensive August. " ~Amy Sperry Faldet
"Echo's Lament for Narcissus" by Ben Jonson
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;
List to the heavy part the music bears;
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers;
Fall grief in showers,
Our beauties are not ours;
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil."
I don't know about you, but wistful dustings sprinkle upon my August. Never any regrets, as in Carl Sandburg's "Wistful"
"Wishes left on your lips, the mark of their wings, regrets fly kites in your eyes."
Just a smattering of wistful musings at the thought of flowers spent, penny candy from Mother, slowly savored, yes, but, just a memory on the tongue. Do gladiolas do this for you? Are they soo spring-like that they seem to be shoved through a faery portal at us, lest we forget in the crisp heat of August, all the gifts we were showered? I shant forget, best that I can. I will see each bud on the stalk as a little abode, sweet pink for a faery memory. Glad. That is what the ghosts whisper. Glad.