He dines on blossoms & ruts in the wood.
Naked as birth but for greenery’s hood.
He is the scion of the Holly King.
Tasked by the nymphs with ushering in Spring.
Green clover carpets grow where his hooves trod.
All saps rise for his risqué wink & nod.
He plays a flute made from his father’s rib.
He draws fur & feather from Winter’s crib.
His name is Prince Jack; he brings in the green.
His works are afoot…but he’s rarely seen.
L.B.Stowe 