The Maid

Olden maid, lain coffinwise beyond the crack’d step,
made swallowed whole by fallow growth—
bewild’ring foxtail and dogwood—
for the eyes of tender youth to glean.
In her golden shroud do motes of summer dance, 
then fall wearily,
tributes to an open grave.

O youth, reach not for her. 
The truth was never thine to know. 
Dreadfully stirs the heart 
for eyes befallen on callow jests—
or worse, on truth.

Icy flesh about thee,
linger no more, in horror retire.
Bear not the thoughts within thy mind,
and tell none,
of the maid enhaloed gold.

Photo by Ashley Levinson on Unsplash