Strolling down a quiet street
what strangers might I chance to meet
along this way, pleasingly offbeat?
Alas, I am alone with my thoughts,
passing between these empty lots
overgrown with weeds and forget-me-nots,
Struggling under the afternoon sun;
turning brown and waiting to be spun
perhaps into gold? My imagination
Turns now to Rumplestiltskin’s tale,
spinning straw to gold to blackmail
the Miller’s daughter, himself to avail
of her firstborn child. But she was near
in the forest as he danced, and did overhear
him sing his own name; so she held it dear.
And so she was able to keep her child
because the imp had been acting wild:
and by his own name, became beguiled.
3/6/24
Karen McCaskey 