He flies not,

Walks only,

Humble yet proud,

Knowing his might,

All powers of Air

Locked in his breath

and in his birthright.

 

Idun’s fair locks fall on his shoulder

As she adjusts the strap of his harp,

Kisses him as if it were every day, which is

Not so false. He is often away, and she tends

Hearth and garden, orchard and gate

Until he wends his way back home again.

He catches their reflection in the glass as he

Turns to go; she, all youth and gilt, he, long-bearded,

Plain-featured, just short of old in spite of

His lady’s apples. A mismatched couple,

So many said, but she knew better.

The Apple-Keeper is a sensible sort, more valuing

Hard work than handsome boasts, and he works hard,

Beating his brains until the words come, playing

Till bloodied fingers, going out again and again

To spread himself across nine worlds.

And then, it was the brilliance, the song,

The words, the very presence that took her heart.

“Play for me!” and she drinks him in, his voice

Mellifluous as honeyed mead, the Mead

That once gave him birth. She kisses him

Once again, then watches as his figure

Dwindles down the path, his eyes already

Fixed on the far horizon. She blows a final kiss,

Sing on the wind, touch his cheek when he

Most needs it. Carry my love to my hard-toiling love,

Who trudges across nine realms for peace.

And this is the best hymn I could have sung for him,

That he won the love of fair Idun with words alone,

With brains and breath and song and something more,

The vision and the dream, a dream she could embrace,

A future more compelling than the fairest face.