Bride
Meet her in
the woods
when the snow melts in your lungs.
Breathe her sweet fog.
She is white from head to toe.
Silver rings upon her fingers.
Black as Night she is as well.
In dark she comes to make the buds swell.
And she is young and ancient
a hag, a mother, a maid.
Whatever shape you need her
she finds a form: deer’s golden skin,
bird’s red feather, silver fish fin or
the cold grey eye of the hawk.
She is not ashamed of dirt
under her fingernails,
yet she is spotless.
pure, the snowdrop
nodding over granite stone.
Find her at the vee in the trail
where it forks and you must choose
one way or the other way
to continue your journey.
Find her where the beaver has cut
a hundred wands
to block the stream.
The mystery of his plan
is already constructed
in her heart.
Sarah Fuhro
©2006