There was a time when I could be wounded by something the moon did.
When the sight of my mother kneading dough sent me out into the snow.
When something my father said drove a green lance in my side.
When I had to put the book down in awe of all the dead know.
When it took me hours to prepare to visit the ailing mare.
Now, I’ve built a castle and armed myself with buckets of boiling tar and arrows.
Stocked the moat with fish with knives for teeth. Cleared the trees for miles.
I can just see to where the far woods faint upwards, steep and green. In that bower cower
all those once-beloved things, come to do me harm.
How vigilant I am! I don’t even look up to watch the moon
catapult over me nightly, though I know it by my shadow.