The man has been gone so long,
his own child won’t know him.
She and the woman, they must have
their own stories now, their own songs—
some for hauling wood and water,
others to sweeten the girl’s sleep.
The wilderness is a strange place
to slumber, always the other-worldly
howl of something too close.
The man has been gone so long,
working over the mountain, maybe
his child’s hair will be dark and wild
as feathers, her eyes more yellow,
hawk-eyes always spying birds
in the leaves. When he left, the girl
was moon-faced, her wispy curls
as gold as his long ago. But memory’s
spell is always broken. The man knows
her curls will darken as his did,
like honey left too long in the jar.
