The girl whose arms are leaves
at whose heart
a small flower with
bowed head
hides its moon-glow
of remote thought —
is pursued by the sun
with flaming gifts,
crimson and white.

But she of ample thighs
and full breasts
though she yields her
mooney flower
hides still her face
among the leaves
of her arms — remembering!

A bear that threads
the ravine at night and
the wild fox protect her.
But we have chicks
to raise and lambs to culture.
Who will protect us
from her dominion?


 = Leon Branton