Thigh-high hunting boots,
crocus-colored skirt,
leather breastplate,
fawn-skin thrown across the shoulder,
crown of verdant ivy over hair artfully disheveled,
peacock colored eye-shadow smeared and messy,
cheeks flushed with wine –
Wait! Wait! Sorry, I was describing her husband.
It’s so easy to mistake one for the other
in a certain light and if you’ve had a bit too much to drink.
All apologies.
So there Ariadne sits, in the ox-shed, waiting for him to come to her in the night
and her wine-stained lips are singing ecstatic praises of the lord who comes
in the frenzy of the dance, heart pounding, world swimming in and out of focus,
swirling like a swarm of bees, like a fountain of lava bursting forth,
like the sap swishing through the trees, like the deer bounding through the woods,
like a conquering king leading his faithful troops on to glory,
he is here.
