As a little girl, I said I didn't want to be  
a princess. I didn't want to be 
Queen Guinevere 
strolling in silken dress, 
breathing the stale recycled air 
of other nobles, 
at home in a castle. 

I want to be nameless 
Lady of the Lake 
adorned in scallop shells 
and rock shards 
and fish net, 
at home in a grotto, 
limestone my walls 
unpainted and damp with dreams. 

Starlight shines through 
the woodland sinkhole: 
a nature-made oubliette 
sparkling the groundswell. 

I rest on bearskin rugs  
atop a hill of collapsed chert. 
The river's rain waltzes across my cheeks. 

The queen can keep her dry 
straw mattress and goosedown pillows. 
Here, the geese sleep safe in my arms 
under a reachable sky.