Leslie Wolf
A MOMENT WITH ROBIN HOOD
Evening, and the glass forest
is too rattled to hold its breath. Does
her livery of mustard and plum now reach
like an arm through the prism of wood,
a secret too squeamish for passersby?
The pricked stars wince
but the night is scarcely old:
the little light sucks a black twig
like dew. Stop shaking, Mr. Branch,
you are not cold.
And still the bloodthirsty question
depends from the pear-shaped leaves:
Why is she not here to greet you,
the si lverstemmed Rose of Burgundy,
the Countess on whom it rides?
Where has she rushed that
vaunted pedigree to, where else
to bank it, but here? We ll.
Let Her Highness come later
but soon!
Let her coach gl ide to us
like a spider
under the bald rose of the moon.
Let her delve into the still
hurricane of her heart
and offer
your exhausted mare
a bridle and a sparkling shoe,
a saddle
that blossoms, and redeems.
