Dark Maiden of Spring I am
the sounds of night,
the owl who hunts,
the mouse who screams.

Fog I am,
Maiden of Spring,
drifting, dark.

Reversal, my card,
cold nights after warming days,
bright blossoms stiff under snow.

Eggs rotten in painted shells,
children sick from too much sweet,
drunken Sundays,
Fridays when nothing is good.

High winds I am,
change,
a robin's egg whole on the ground,
April showers flooding the land,
a heron dead on sand.

Dark Maiden of Spring I am,
I am, I am
hope that fails to come with spring,
bloodroot crushed under fawn's hooves,
afternoons lost to duty,
sun unworshipped
by workers in buildings with climate-controlled
air.

Blood orange, ruby red,
swallowing, swallowing
oil spill on water,
jet trail on air,
sewage on earth,
mercury on fire.

Uninvoked I come laughing, laughing
over the hill, leading Dawn with hasty hands,
pulling your princess from dreams, from sleep,
her gossamer caught in thorns.

I am the Maiden,
death march,
silent night,
disgorging my tail,
refusing to swallow
oil spill on water,
jet trail on air,
sewage on earth,
mercury on fire.

I am not your pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey party,
your sweet thing,
your child of spring.
I am your Maiden
dark, not fair.
Skin inked with solar flare,
acid colors in my hair,
heavy metal black I wear
storm boots, storm boots
for smashing glass slippers here and there.

Beware!