Variation on a Theme: Daphne and Apollo

She turns. 

Yet again,

that swivel to the back,

the weakening in her middle, heart

succumbing to the longing

for sight, the way a flower

seeks the sun that gives it 

life even as it, too, burns

its way through the liquid

pathways, fire portending 

danger. 

Her arms, flailing, exasperation 

manifesting in the force, frail

and brutal, all at once--

how much longer will the feet hold

this run, this escape to nowhere 

from the very thing she holds dear 

and yet shuns? Briefly, she pauses,

a slight billow in the breeze,

a figure swaying, in-between,

praying for elsewhere--

And he of swift limbs poised

to capture, reaches out with all the strength

he can muster, encircles

her slight paleness with his embrace,

solid and pure, grasping, locking

her length with his, pleading, tenderness

and force in the confused whirl

of the moment

which he knows is his, 

for now she is looking, at last,

in his eyes, a sad sweetness, her soul

reaching out for his:

Anchor me.