Shadow, I have played
the miller’s daughter
to your Rumpelstiltskin.
When offered straw, reams of it,
and challenged to spin it into gold,
I burnt it for warmth.

If only I could name
your dark shadow
that spins overhead:
you project the shadow
of a raven
with a wingspan
vast as an army.

With the spring thaw,
my footprints melted.
There is no retracing my steps.

I move forward,
like a spindle
spinning in space,
seeking a place
to be at rest.

As I write,
I spin straw,
not into gold,
but into words:
tangled locks,
heavy with seed.