Laurel

Was it meant to be a metaphor? The girl

in a tree, Thorn soft-laughing, leaves

spiraling down in gold-slanted sun?

On the road the king’s men, riding closer,

singing “Greensleeves,” and I came here to save

her. It was her hawk, said Thorn, it has been

done before. I think Rose is straying

rather far from the mark. It has been done

before: The hawk in the tree, the lady

with a sword, in the breeze autumn leaves

stirring, then still.