The woodcutter’s daughter was not the one saved when

      he split open the wolf.

Hero to someone else,

heralded for his selfless deed, he wandered

                        away,   seeking


and fame.

Crumbs eaten,

stones grown moss green

she practiced

new stories for the new father,

the dark haired,

browned eyed to his hazel,

 silent to his singing,

 sluggish to his dancing.

 She stood at the edge of the wood,

cape in hand, a basket of

caribou bones,

howling for the wolf.


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