By Katharyn Machan

I thought to save her, golden

among the shadows of her birth.

Her mother’s midnight cries

for rampion, her father’s stealth

into the garden I had planted

with sun and darkest warmth:

I felt her call for help even before

blood bore her into light and love

that sought to suffocate, to sever

real cord to deepest pulse of touch

with earth, with night, with fire.

Of course I took her, purest rescue,

sun carrying us day’s long reach

to give her home in tallest tower

beyond their narrow touch. Daughter

my womb could never give, companion

where foxes and hares say goodnight:

what old wives’ tale could ever hold

the honey and silk of her sacred dreams

or the truth of our shared longings?

(Originally appeared in Dogwood 2001)