Somehow, she always knew that the unicorn

was what she'd been waiting for. Why have a man

when you could have the shimmering horn,

the cloud-white mane, the eyes that shone like

polished stones? She sat in the dry leaves,

a maiden in a pleasaunce, its head on her knees.

It slept while she dreamed of a millefleur forest

and the end of the story by a pomegranate tree.

There was a long afterward. When they emerged

from a tangle of boughs, it all seemed different,

like looking through the other side of a mirror.

She stroked the unicorn's shivering flank,

remembering the crimson warmth of the tapestry.