Daphne was saved.
Was she? Could she stand the
Salvation of
Roots and Branches, Wood and Leaves?
She had no say.
She was not free to
Gather Flowers, to
Weep in Anger, to
Drink Water from a Brook;
No willow was she.
A laurel, as if self-satisfied
Peneus saw accolade irony.
Apollo could do as he pleased:
He rendered her Evergreen,
Could rest in her shade.
O Daphne,
Astonished in flight
Winded by hardening limbs—
The sky is free—!
So reach.



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