Ffern the Fae wasn’t the fairest, nor was he the brightest,
But he didn’t care, all he ever wanted was to be an artist.
Every Valentine's Day, when the cold streets still bore ice lace on their noses,
He slipped pink letters into the dark mouths of lonely people’s mailboxes.
Ffern the Fae's words never rhymed, nor made much sense at all,
But lonely people smiled at the meaning behind each scrawl.
Yes, Ffern the Fae’s words were not like all others,
But who cares when by next Valentine’s day, they would wed one lonely heart to another’s.
That meant the world to Ffern the Fae,
For that was his art,
And for his art he would pick any and all stubborn lock.
Widow Larson opened her pink letter one Valentine’s day,
Her clothes and her heart, as usual, all draped in grey.
Her face softened as she read Fern the Fae’ wording,
"It must be from Mr. Powell," her cheeks blushed, "From Accounting!”
"Scam mail," widow Larson daughter’s words dropped cold and certain,
Drawing shut her mother’s last Love curtain.
Ffern the Fae was upset… but then he remembered,
That widow Larson’s daughter had been long married,
And must have forgotten Love’s ache and the sweet hopes it carried.
Next Valentine’s Day, because Ffern the Fae was patient, in ways only those who live outside time can be,
He sent widow Larson’s daughter a pink letter that carried a sweet, familiar, yet ancient memory,
Like a song half-forgotten, before remembered words set it free.
Reading the words with a racing heart, widow Larson’s daughter tried to bring her trembling hands to a standstill.
But her eyes went moist as she began to remember Love’s early thrill.
She gave her husband the smile she thought she'd misplaced somewhere between their running kids and long grocery lists,
So big was his surprise, he smiled back at her beautiful smile he so long missed.
Ffern the Fae wasn’t the fairest, nor was he the brightest,
But he didn’t care, all he ever wanted was to be an artist.
He came from the cold streets that still bore ice lace on their noses,
And slipped pink letters into the dark mouths of lonely people’s mailboxes.
Ffern the Fae’s words were not like all others,
But who really cares if he could wed one lonely heart to another’s?
For that was Ffern the Fae’s art, and it was truly a most precious art,
For who else can claim to heal any and all stubborn heart?