The Epic of Myth [a poem]

Planted firmly in the bare earth,
is the true soldier of epic myth,
Who dances with the east wind
and in sorrows bows down low
under rains the west wind wept.

She wore a dandelion diadem helm
Gird a blade of grass for her sword
One shield only she has chosen:
a vast, unbending web of leaves.
Many summer passions burn down
And yet, an utter cool becomes her.

It shines brightly amber, her shadow
Where on purest bed of winter snow
she awakens to perpetually blossom.