she stirs, at one faint pluck of a spectral string,
to tend her hair, her lissom fingers
wrapped over the crystalline comb;
drum-beats creep spryly round the moon
and through the wind, stroking ears of corn,
fields of solidago, apple trees, larkspur
and silver birches that sway
in anticipation of what is to come.
she says, is it time, is it time?
and the sweet, sweet rot of her cerecloth
scents the pregnant air with delight.
songbirds race on thunder, spilling trills across the sea,
rain falls in quavers and she leaps to her feet,
moves in lightning streams of mercury glissades
faster and faster, kicking the earth in twists and craves.
the screams of her body, in its witchly dance of rite,
trace the antiphony of the storm-spinning night
leaping higher and higher, the chorus of her white feet
lighter than breath.
hurtling over the heads of men, children, ladies,
lords and queens, she is the choreographer
of their opus-spangled dreams;
they raise their heads to see,
and to weep,
and when she is gone
they all lie down to sleep.