It’s 3:33 and I feel her pull me out of one dream, into another, into the real. November tree limbs reach down from the beeches and swaddle me in their druid arms. She hums a faraway tune that glazes my eyes and injects within my bones such gallant venom that I find myself mistaking my own heart for that of Gawain, of Lancelot. I know she feels my warrior lungs beating in time with the forest’s everlasting march, I know she feels my resolve shrinking away into the future as my skin turns to bark and my hair turns to leaves. I watch history unraveling above the black water and remember my time as the woman in the pool, the lady of the lake. How silly, what frivolity I have criminally committed to run from this fate.
[Written November 1st, 2016]