Fear

it is, and fear, it must be
that has made her summon the wind
to push her feet
ever into a run
over damp trail, thorn and leaf,
across rivulet, brook, spring,
this naiad, child of the river,
pale figure in the woods, frail except
in the chase that is to be
the beginning of her end.

For what gloriousness must he have possessed for her--
god of sunlight and truth,
music and poetry, all
that she has loved and will
love. For love,
when it overtakes us,
finds us at our weakest, exposes all
that is naked in us until, confronted
by that which we dare ask for only in dreams, we
tremble in the face of the very thing
we desire:
Possession.

And at the core of her fear lies
her soul, struggling against the promise
of redemption from being haunted
by her own shadow. There is
beauty in capture, but the heart insists
on the imminence of loss--
absolute, encompassing--
the plight of all that is beautiful,
as he is beautiful, and therefore,
may yet be her greatest
loss.

This, he does not understand--he thinks
her flight a refusal of his outstretched hand--
so that when, finally, the struggle ends (for it is written, and so it must be)
and she transforms into the magnificent myth
where the story ends,

her deliverance is from herself--
whom she most fears, not
he.