some princess

You're grasping at straws with such good cause
making sweet hay while the hot sun shines
on a farm such as the one
that maybe David St. Hubbins
might have sung about once,
straws so sweet - but rough, dry,
no longer - suddenly fine!
since you've spun them to gold -
in your hands, alchemy: matter, space
yield to mind
time to eternity
wax poured into mold
nimble fingers spin lines
of cut summer-grown grass,
grown first head-high then mown
now as shimmering flax, into metal dissolved,
gleaming sun-like, light shone
so much brighter than brass
and you - working so sure,
with repetitive pass,
with untiring stroke
piled treasures galore
till a finger-slip - prick!
on one thin spindle fell
and with moan,
and with swoon
you were under the spell