The tale of Little Red Riding Hood reflects a seasonal ritual
in which spring conquers winter (ed. Alan Dundes).
A basket dangles from your arm
filled with ripe apples;
your crimson cloak is drenched in dew
and adorned with autumn brambles.
Alone in the woods, what is it you seek?
Show me the strawberry tinged down
at the nape of your neck,
your smooth palms and slight wrists.
Ah, do I frighten you?
I am only a voice that cracks stars into ice,
a dark shape in the shattered light
that wraps the land in clouds and frost.
Best not tell Grandma where you’ve been.
Stay here with me all winter long
till the huntsman’s axe
breaks frozen ground.
