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[catelin]

Dryad
Evelyn de Morgan

A Dryad Outside the Garden Window

I know little but cleaving to the arms of trees,
catching their dappled leaves in my hair,
reading messages in their ironbound bark.

Careful, there are no oaks in the desert.

Their uneasy voices translate as silence,
whispered hushed tones that recount the
transformations of my sisters before me.

Echo's flesh shrank away from her;
she lived in the caves alone, desolate,
until her bones became ashen stone.

I ease their apprehension with gentle assurances
of a place in the rocks where persimmons and pears
ripen under the watchful tendrils of a Flower Moon.

I am wary only of being lost in the place
between where she ends and I begin.

I think of green acorns as I make my way to his windowsill;
infused with his sweet voice, I fearlessly tread the garden path,
feet keeping time with what I imagine his heart's step to be.