Norroway in February

For surefooted step, hooves behoove the haver.

The sky redid blue, the woman wavered,

and the black bull (the vanquisher), vanished.

She called out to nothing, and in vain shed

tears until she reached the glass hill’s impasse.

Served her standard fairy tale penance, passim,

served her seven to be given iron

shoes to — at last — scale the hill, the earned

neared end. Each step conquered territory,

at last, the sleeping prince-once-bull, torrid tearing

of clothes, tearing on one’s clothes, three nights of this

until the prince awakes. How she, exhausted,

must have felt in the at long last, the ever after.

Happily, I guess, but a long time until laughter.