He garlands her with white arbutus in spring
And she is Frigga, Venus of Scandinavia.
Through drowsy summer days he paints
Her flesh pearly and smooth as silken linings
Of conch shells, her long limbs loose in sleep.
But fall diminishes her. A lesser wood nymph
Under a maple leaf, Persephone sliding
Back into earth, she moves away from him.
Against the black winter oak in her army
Cape she deflects his gaze with the icy eyes
Of Freyja, Prussian queen of slaughtered warriors.
Over the years his drybrush explores the ripened
Wheat of her hair, the Viking angles of her features.
The unsmiling mouth at last defeats him.
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