From “The Princess and the Frog,” Kindr—und Hausmarchen, 1812, 
	Brothers Grimm. In the original story, the princess did not kiss the 
	frog, but instead threw him against the wall, which brought about the 
	princely transformation.
 
Listen to the low-German tongue.
Stories spoken plain by spinners of flax
through golden afternoons
where dust motes weave backward
and forward, twirling in a medieval 
air-dance to the cadence of good humor.
Tales with the heft of a hand-held spindle
bobbing above an earthen floor.
The barrier between in-here 
and out-there,
between then and now, 
is thin as twig and straw.
 
Mothers tell tales to daughters 
from the edges of forests. Ancient forests 
continental forests—ancestral 
castles unto themselves 
with brooding conifer giants
stretching to the gods of leaden sky 
who lord over moss boulders 
jagged crags
fallen mist and leaf shudder
pale lichen and old, old bones.
Tiny men mine treasure 
cobble shoes.
Girls exercise their wits
while women hone personal power
for good or ill.
 
Twilight seeps into smoky rooms 
where barefoot spinster women
moisten strands of flax 
with their spit and imagine 
themselves shield maidens 
of the North. They forge 
cultural constructs 
of themselves fierce and strong.
These images later looted like treasure 
and buried—lorded over 
by crafty dwarves. A spell 
of 1,000 years. Until long slumbering
warrior women, wielders of spear 
sword, and bow
awaken from their dreams 
with the dry kiss of archeology.