Meadow-sweet, honey-scented, almond on the tongue;
White-faced, red-stemmed, wet lands in the woods;
Black dye from root shafts, lying on a grave.

Oak-heart, hold-fast, bending wills to mine;
Yield-not, stand-still, never give him up.
Shield tree, choose fate. Ha! What did you think?

Gold-hair, all-smiles, reaching through my land;
Tall girl, long limbs, spreading everywhere;
Sweep rooms, blossom-broom; now my chieftain dies.

Owl-cloak, iron wings, silent storms aloft.
Copper-fletched, flower-face, eyes and ears alone:
Dawn-striker set free. Say: what did you think?

His land wifeless; he sees me rule at night.
Roots turned raptor talons. Now I’ll not let go.

[Freya Wendt (she/her) lives in New Brunswick, Canada, between the Atlantic and the Appalachians, and writes about the shifty things living in the in-between: werewolves, shapeshifters, hybrids, and others who just can’t stand still or make up their minds. This is her first poem.]