The Wicker WomanI dreamed of a cream skinned girl last night,
With silver hair like wood long dried.
She rode the wind over bleak, barren lands,
Like a leaf on the ocean-tide.
So I took her from her ever circling steed,
Like plucking a flower from a branch.
Yet when I held her soft warm form in my arms,
I saw a startling vision in a flash.
She was not the girl I thought she was,
But only a vaguely woman shaped weave.
Like birch-bark straps intermingled artfully,
All hollow inside as an empty case.
And when my vision finally cleared,
She stood enfolded in my embrace.
Warm and tender and yielding and near,
Her fairy face was fine and smiling.
My lust was hot and need was clear,
She shared my mood without beguiling.
And yet the vision I still recalled,
Of the woven basket woman.