The Birds

She pulls us, unknowing

Demure as a winter landscape 

And yet she seems like lush black loam -

As if the freshest worms nestled in her hair.

Poor child.

We cannot help the way 

We chase, pulling strands when she droops 

Scenting blood.

The bears would have loved her, but the little men

Found her first, jealous 

And fierce with their axes.

No wonder the queen could not let her be.

Or the huntsman.

Something in her speaks to the heart 

Of every heart half pure -

Hungry, selfish, yet open enough 

To grieve the innocence we will devour.

She begged. Unthinkably generous 

They set her in diamond to keep her safe,

And so she lay at peace.

Until an incautious prince rode by…

We watch.

Soon, the coffin will open.