Singing Wood
He watched her beating out the clothes
upon the river rock.
He wanted to approach her
but was unskilled in small talk.
Laughing Waters was the prettiest maiden
any young brave could know.
His heart was so filled with her
but he could not tell her so.
He dreamed of bringing to her
the most glorious of hides
that she might make into a dress
to become his promised bride.
He wasn’t the most skilled hunter,
nor the bravest of the brave,
but his great love was the purest
that a little maid could crave.
He had the fine hands of an artist
and the spirit of a poet.
Unless he found his tongue to speak,
there was no way she could know it.
What was it he could offer that
no other man could give?
If she yielded to another’s guile
he would not want to live.
He looked at his long fingers
and knew then what he must do
to impress his fair young lady love
and prove his love so true.
He found a limb and hollowed it
‘til it was smooth as glass.
He lifted it to his moist lips
just as she chanced to pass.
A note so pure came from his flute,
the maiden stopped to hear.
The loveliest sound she’d ever heard
fell on her listening ear.
She knew the flute was telling her
the words he could not say.
Singing Wood had found his voice at last.
She is his bride today.
Buy Joyce Johnson
Constance's contest (Tell His Story)
won no. 4 place
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