Waking Beauty

When she woke, she was mistaken,
For in the dim light of the briar-wreathed tower,
She blinked as he kissed her good morning
And thought his shadowed face
Was that of her father, waking her
With the amused, half-worried smile
Of an only child's parent, checking always
For the sound of breathing, terrified of finding silence.
The planes and hollows of his face
Were wrong, though, even to her sleepy eyes,
The smoothness of his cheek brushing her lips
Was not the bristle of her father's beard.
Who was this stranger kneeling by her bed,
Dark eyes glistening and wide, breath held
As he looked at her, at her hair spread out on the pillow,
Tan, ringed hand paused an inch away
From touching her face.
Where was she, in whose cotton-sheeted bed,
When she had fallen asleep...
Where had she fallen asleep?
There was something about a spindle...
He was looking at her still;
What should she do?
Tentatively, she reached out, took his hand,
And slowly began to smile.
It would be the same every morning
For the rest of their lives.