The Oaten Bride (6) Poem by David McLansky

Her hair is oaten like her cloak
Her supple limbs gleam in the smoke;
On her head an oaten crown
Formed of stalks woven round

What bride upon her wedding night
Lays so secure with heart so light;
What joy blooms there upon her cheek;
She smiles with pride she cannot speak.

The moon does summon as a bell
The ancient stalk does rise and swell
The groom descends to claim his prize:
The barren Earth is fertilized.