The Oaten Bride Iii Poem by David McLansky

The singing mounts in celebration,
The Maiden shows no hesitation;
Honored, feted, filled with pride,
She dances as the Oat God's bride;
A nymph amid the blowing mist,
A crumpled oat stalk in her fist;

Her hair is oaten like her cloak;
Her supple limbs gleam in the smoke;
On her head an oaten crown
Formed of oat stalks woven round;

What bride upon her wedding night
Steps so sure with foot so light?
What joy blooms there upon her cheek;
What rapture as she twists and leaps;