Oh, how I wish, the Dear Lady well.

For it is she, that taught the mysteries

of the Henge with boughs of evergreen;

making her famous brown muck soup.

Because of her,

balloons were given, and little grey men like on TV,

for that silver, spinning frisbee that

fell like a star to wish upon.

That Lady Ros, told me a story,

of the Yule Father, returning in the wind.

Flies pole to pole in Blitzering speed!

Back in fifty something, spotted over DC.

Good Lady Ros, who on that year,

crashed in with cactus; brought Army Men vests,

early semiconductor units, and bendable metal toys.

The wrapping papers differed, as the night went on.

I wish Dear, Lady Ros, well.

Her greatest gift from her crash,

the promise of light, after the Dark

Winter’s Judgment