No Wedding for Artemis
by Annelinde Metzner
It’s April, and Artemis, Her long thighs
glowing brown and bare,
strides through the forest, almost silent,
Her sleek dogs with Her, silent too.
When She feels called, She stops,
and turns Her curly head up and to one side.
She waves Her staff into the air, giggling,
and the Dogwood opens its blossoms, giggling too,
trying for a decorous silence
but tinkling, starry, faintly chiming.
Each pearly branch suspends itself,
a unique Origami mobile of white grace
in the newly green forest.
She points Her staff to the earth, for fun,
and pink Trilliums bloom,
nodding in the breeze.
Artemis gazes up and sighs,
smitten, enraptured with delight.
“Are you getting married?” calls the Wood Thrush.
“You are decorating our Woods for a great joining,
a conjunctio, a rare event.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughs Artemis,
and She stamps Her agile, brown foot.
“No!” She harrumphs, annoyed.
“Marriage will never be for me.”
From the next tree over, waiting for the Poplar
to bloom its perfect chalices of green and orange,
the Wood Thrush calls out its flute-like enchantment
and watches Her leap,
scattering Dogwood blooms high among the new green leaves.
Annelinde Metzner, April 27, 2017