My feet leap in the world of Faerie

My body dances in my sacred grove.
In my eyes, you see something wild –
something you cannot tame and take
back home to your castle to meet your king.
But you will surely still try.
My hands will never tie a scarlet favor
upon your armor as you joust.
(My lips murmur words in the undergrowth.
My tongue feasts on dew and honey.)
You pull my feet from their dance on earth,
and set me on your pacing steed.
But I am no wilting flower to be plucked.
No distressed damsel to be saved.
I make us wander in circles
back to my grove.
You think to rest in a copse of trees
before arriving home
to share your newest conquest.
You wanted the primal,
You just wanted it tamed.
I gave you what you wanted
But now how.
I stroked your hair and lulled you
into a deep sleep
(with words you never understood,
yet convinced yourself you knew).
I sent you companions in your dreams –
other princes and knights who also
dreamt of conquering the wild in me.
You awoke on the hill where I left you,
and I’ve heard you never left – still
braiding nooses from your growing hair,
weaving prison bars from branches,
unwilling to believe that you are
no master in my world of wild.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, you call me.
And indeed, you never thanked me
for the lesson I tried to convey.
In return, I say
You are not welcome either.



Model
Grace Nuth
Photographer Erica Peerenboom Photography
Article from Issue #28 Autumn 2014
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