All Goddesses loved Daphne.  We chased her through the alleys and the trees. 
We offered her figs and oysters, tried to seduce her. But she was slippery and wary
of our advances. Like a chorus of sirens, let us praise her, call to her through the green
stalks, the bursting sunflowers.
 
Crinaeae:  I have cornered her by every fountain in Venice where old men 
bring their hounds to drink. I have tried to lap her and bring her down. The bells, 
the tinkling music of her swishing silks, just before me, always just ahead. 
Her hair tumbling, the white tresses that melt upon the arch of the spray. She
is a waterfall that always shivers me away. 
 
Limnatide:  How can we thwart her? She is our mistress, she is our daughter.
I tried to transform myself into a pitcher, a vessel, how hard would that be?
Given my powers, I would do this task reverently.  What stopped me each
and every breath? The stillness of her eyes. How do you drink her to the last
and not lose her completely, inside the spiral of the spout?  She evades,
I find a shell on the bottom that she slid off, a ladder to obscurity. She is too
clever a maiden for me.
 
Pegaeae:  We shared a scallop, like a dollop of mint and horse radish. We once
held each other sweetly, my sisters say this is our third try. But what if she
became something we cannot fathom?  If she should be a tree,
as they portend, then I shall become a yellow finch born off her branches. Ever-
green, a half forgotten wish, that turns yellow leaves into birds and not into fish.
 
Potomaides:  I shiver in her river.
 
Ellen-Oh-May:  Even the otters want to break the shell of her on their bellies.
How can they? They are mere whips, striking out on a wet body. It is the thought
of her escape that make them curse her, she is a slippery fish, despite having arms
and legs. 
 
The alleys lead to a garden, where they tumble sparks of sun, stalks all akimbo.
They are jumbled in the mix, the chase of daunsinge, the rush of dance. Unable
 to contain themselves, they rake her droppings.  They carve their souls
upon her wooden heart.
 
The Echo they hear is the last maid, wringing tattered handkerchiefs of rain. 
                        

Slinking down the road, I wonder how I managed to avoid
being fondled at the party, too much beer at that barbecue
 
and now, I am heady with escape.  Rumor has it, I can sting
but there is lots of gossip about me. Old wife, or not, I would 
 
never sting somebody’s husband, although they tell me there 
is a book about this: Farmer’s Almanac or something. I hate
 
birds especially wood peckers, how many of those feathered 
fiends have destroyed generations of us? Luckily, I have gotten
 
even with my bristly fur duds. These silly men think
I am a soothsayer.  I am neither psychic nor weatherman. 
 
What I am is a dreamer. Long winter nights cuddled in my leaf 
blanket,  I sleep not confident of even that book’s predictions.
 
When I awaken in Spring it is a celebration.
My fancy coat is a symbol of the previous winter’s past.