La Belle Au Bois Dormant

THE pines do not stir. Not a wind
Nods the grass where she’s sleeping.
No note of a bell can intrude
In the wood
That has her in keeping.

In gold she lay down, in tall broom,
Her long hair with its grasses
Confused and the sun with them both.
A white moth
Thinks it flame. No foot passes.

A bird soars in rings, in blue air.
Black are the wings that he’s flapping.
No sight but a dream of the sun
Is with one
Who so deeply is napping.

Green woods, may she sleep and not wake.
Time is the bell that was ringing.
No moth, no dark bird, call her back
From the sleep
Where her heart is now singing.