White-fingered Blodeuwedd, maiden fair as the face
of the storm, you knew no mother’s loving arms
nor father’s strength to keep you safe; your life
was made to serve another’s need. From flowers nine
your form was fashioned, of primrose and of broom,
of meadwort fresh and sweet, of the chestnut and the bean,
of the sturdy oak and the tree of the may,
of the cockle that pricks and the nettle that stings.
Blodeuwedd, called faithless and wicked by those
who would profit by your being, you know much
of blame and betrayal, of a life with no recourse,
of choices made by a thorny heart–I honor you.

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