The Sprites

I don’t know if they numbered nine
because that number had some special
meaning (three times three—the stuff
of poetry?) or if the train
of silver maiden simulacra
would have numbered ten or more
if not for their abruptly blinking out.

I watched them generate against
the trees that lined the garden’s edge
and sail the dark—their daisy-chained
arms more white than white for not
reflecting light but being light
itself; and as they danced towards me,
I took in how their spectral faces beamed.

And then they flickered once or twice
and disappeared without a trace,
but for the blur of figures burned
into my field of vision like
impressions of the Pleiades…
Blinking down at the grass, I knew
no dew would settle here for some time yet.