This Pythian maiden wears her emerald-wreath
for the sun, her lover and her god; she knows
those word-smiths, the poets who treasure her
as well; for whom her sweet aroma dwells
among river-words that last like smooth stones.
Some say that if you kiss her dark green lips
on the right day, or under the blood moon, she
will return to her rightful form and run away;
her life at bay to be free of that mortal touch
that can enslave her in its sun-magic glance.
She will dance for you and rise among the stars
on All-Hallow’s eve with her wild ones riding
below a bone-moon on her Midnight Journeys.
Cut a sprig of her hair if that rumbling thunder
holds you in its lightning spell; and if she burns
quick on the hearth and sparks all things are good;
else if she smolders long beware ill-tidings;
and, if you seek her inspiration hide under pillow,
or wear your baby’s tooth wrapped in her hair
for sweet fortune’s call; else face the dark beast
in his labyrinth whose horns seek the gift of death.
Burn her green life with sandalwood against curses,
and snap a twig of her dalliance for faithfulness in love.
Beware the toad that grows under her skirt, too;
else darkness and blindness shall haunt you always.
A respite against all ills, steep her leafy life
with honey for happiness and bright days.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.