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
greatness
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.
