Slammed in the deep-freeze,
put on ice and left to dry;
sapless, hopeless, helpless –
until she encounters
the Lord of the Wood.
All winter,
roots have dug in desperation
and found vein.
Hands and heart have swayed in wind
and leaves have leaked,
discarded rainbow offering,
pyrite
cast aside
for something more precious.
Suffering
finds Ore
and as hope oozes,
she’s going for gold…
He never saw her value,
the way the sun drew out
the gold in her hair and her heart,
until it was too late.
Solid,
comforting,
mining worth from the
crumbs he tossed at her feet,
she died to him slowly;
over years of neglect,
the arteries seeking sap
withered and found new source.
He reaches,
but grasps air –
she is falling,
falling,
ore he can no longer touch,
gem he can no longer claim
as his own.
Meanwhile, Melody Muses... 