"Schloss Steinau, Hesse, Germany" by Ruth Daniell

The Grimm brothers grew up across the street
in a half-timbered magistrate's house:
studying Greek and Latin, collecting eggs,
and not thinking of magic. By all accounts
it was the best time of their lives. It is quiet here, calm,
unburdened by tourists and noise except
the gentle twittering of small, silver-winged birds.
Watching you squint in this particular light,
it occurs to me that most magic
in fairy tales is the kind that hurts, that traps
and twists and isolates—the happily ever after
is the return to the disenchanted life,
the confidence that love is enough. This must be
the solace those brothers sought to return to:
the nostalgia of afternoon sunlight on the castle
that stood in the neighborhood of their childhood.
Strawberries from the market stain our hands.
I can feel this picnic turn into memory
even as I busy myself with worry about my white sundress.
The light is carefree, like a prince
just transformed from his animal skin or
a princess newly awakened—giddy
with the reward of ordinariness.
Through no fairy intercession that I know of,
you are young and beautiful, and I am too,
and strawberry juice runs in rivulets down our wrists.