She speaks into the wind where words are lost,
wandering, so, the well-worn paths others trod,
distracted, tendrils tumbled down accost
her eyes, blinded so, her soles rough-shod,
yet she goes on, having escaped the wolf.
Still, the thorns catch at her clothes,
strangely disarranged, espying the hoof
of the boar running before her, loathes
the loss of words into the whirling wind,
so many children lost, her hand,
scratched by thorns, so cold, pinned
to her heart for warmth, seeking a land
where winds will cease and she can rest
in the safe surety of her own nest.