Give me something golden, something I can hold;
if I was King Midas, I would not be so bold
as to burn each touch with molten metal,
curse my daughter, purge the earth
of water, wine, good grapes that burst.
Say I, with ore clutched close:
I will tend the forge, close braid and curl
soft shavings into grape leaves furled,
adornments for your ears, soft throat;
and after all, I could true say,
I made fine work
of this precious clay.
© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.