Spells: New and Selected Poems

A Small Sound in the Dark Woods

91 a​small​sound​in​the​dark​Woods She​had​run​to​just​this​point​deep​in​the​woods when​night​overcame​her​eyes​and​even​drowned Apollo’s​footsteps,​and​she​stopped​and​stood just​here​while​the​wood​closed​into​its​circles around​her,​and​soon​the​shadows​stopped​moving. Where​I​stand​now​to​look​around,​she​stood and​watched​the​circles​stop​above​her​head, while​far​away​in​the​loud​rumbling​leaves whose​patterned​panic​still​reflected​god, his​long​pursuit,​his​blind​abandonment, his​uncle’s​heavy​tides,​the​celestial​feet that​flew​to​bear​his​messages,​and​the​wills of​the​other​gods,​accompanying​him​like​stone that​fell​in​sounds​now​in​those​pattering​leaves, it​seemed​she​heard​this​sound,​another​breath, moving​in​fingers​where​there​is​no​wind to​make​life​out​of​leaves,​or​leaves​from​hands. The​ground​is​hard​and​covered​with​small​stones left​from​the​river,​where​nymphs​used​to​play around​those​banks​with​Peneus,​her​father, before​he​turned​her​to​a​laurel​tree. Now​Peneus​is​gone,​and​the​nymphs​are​still. They​won’t​come​back.​The​ocean​is​far​away. Her​roots​are​deep.​Now​nothing​seems​to​move in​the​continual​evening​of​a​night where​she​can’t​sleep,​and​I​can’t​close​her​eyes. The​woods​are​dark,​and​nothing​in​the​sound tells​Daphne​who​it​is​that​she​hears​breathe: only​these​woods​can​hear​her​breath,​my​breath, moving​the​leaves​away​from​Daphne’s​hands. ...