The Masquerade

I dress you in old-fashioned costume,
a pale cream blouse with lace cuffs,
big generous sleeves with tiny gathers
and an open throat.
We're going to a costume ball.
I choose for you pants in a rich brown homespun,
woven and sewn to last.
I button them for you at the side knees.
You choose for yourself
a pair of high-topped lace-up boots
of the softest gold leather.
At the bottom of the trunk
I find you a soft green vest
encrusted with embroidery and beads.
I tie a darkly patterned shawl
with tassel fringe
around your waist for a belt,
and clasp around your neck
a curious and heavy necklace
with strange carvings.
I have tried on long skirts and gowns
and petticoats, but no...
I take them all off,
and wear silver gray tights
and a close-fitting black velvet tunic
cut high at the thighs and edged with fur.
I unfold a high-collared cape of dark silk
with a long flowing train
and tie it over my shoulders.
Its lining is patterned
with a design of ferns.
You place on my hair
a tiara of moss and lichens
and waxy mayflowers
all strangely lighted with stars.
I set upon your brow
a crown of cones and feathers.
I am a Faerie Queen,
you a Gypsy King.
It is midnight.
The musicians are out on the lawn.
Luminous globes
glow in the tree branches.
Oh, but before we leave,
I fasten a heavy gold filigree bracelet
around your once-slashed wrist.
A crystal chain
no mortal eye can see
links it to another,
not as wide,
which I slide over my fingers
onto my own wrist,
for you are mine.
I am yours and you are mine.
The viol is tuning
its lowest strings
out on the grass.
The harp stands under the willow.
The flute player
sits cross-legged on a rock.
The other guests are masked
and fantastically dressed.
They throw tiny pinecones
in our path.
I bow low to you,
My Woodland King.