“She vanished to the wood,” they said. “Forget her—that strange and sickly child.” A child? Your face was no more childish than mine. And yet not a proper prospect. The Queen defiled my kingdom’s sight who saw you as a waif with reddest lips and whitish skin, no queen for future king. And so I wished you a safe escape and returned alone. The woods, once green, had turned grey without you. Then, by a silver lake I found you midst the summer ferns, encased in glass and gold, asleep in Nature’s wake. Serene you slept with starry ribbons laced around your night-sky hair. Could I end this? I have no magic potion, just a kiss. Rebeca Parrott is a poet living in Virginia. She has upcoming work appearing in Applause Literary Journal and Peacock Journal.