Clouds marred the sky that season, and sapped the earth.
The roses did not bloom. He never crossed paths or matched wits
with a green-kirtled girl, brash enough to lay claim to woods and heart,
bright enough to be right on both counts. No,
when teind-time came, there was no one to save him, save himself.
So Tam Lin held tightly through the changes:
he did not know if his “true self” was elf or mortal man,
tree-eyed or true-eyed, bear or lion or burning coal;
but he did not let go of his own hands,
one clutched in the white-knuckled grip of a boy,
one grasped firmly by a hazy, half-formed future.
When he emerged from the water, he shrouded himself in green
and said: I know you, I love you, I’m proud of you, you’re home.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Summer Farah during our annual Kickstarter.]