Melora, in the room she had to herself Because they weren’t white-trash and used to be Eastern, Let the rain of her hair fall down, In a stream, in a flood, on the white birch of her body. She was changed, then. She was not a girl any more. She was the white heart of the birch, Half hidden by a fleece that a South wind spun Out of bronze air and light, on a wheel of light. Her sharp clear breasts Were two young victories in the hollow darkness And when she stretched her hands above her head And let the spun fleece ripple to her loins, Her body glowed like deep springs under the sun.