I walked last night within a dense forest,

its canopy hiding the stars,

thick trunks blocking the rising moon,

until I came to a glade, saw the North Star,

the moon’s ephemeral light, the woman.

You know how this story goes.

She was beautiful, so lovely,

that I fell to one knee, looking

directly into the eyes that looked

into mine while her lips smiled approval.

“Be my lover,” she asked and commanded.

There are many ways this story could end.

She was a witch, and laid a curse on me.

I held her in my arms while she slept,

and when she woke we held each other.

I was alone, but there were leaves,

the green oak leaves of the woods,

scattered on the floor, my bed.

I’m sure you can think of others,

heart warming or breaking, and so on.

Don’t think I haven’t thought of them all.

I’m sorry, so sorry, it was but a dream.

(after the circa-1940 painting by Sulamith Wulfing)