Dionysos and the Dryad
He coils around her, wrapping her thickly in his embrace. She used to resist. She pulled away, writhed slowly against him, pulled her limbs from his grasp and reached desperately toward freedom. But he will not be denied. He has been cut back, chopped off, torn away, yet he always returns, patient, inexorable, irresistible.
He came to her years ago, a shy suitor, tentatively touching her from his home in the nearby pines. She stood aloof from the others, lovely and lone, not needing the close company of the thicket. Her confidence and solitary splendor entranced him. When his initial overtures were not spurned, he became bolder, lacing her needle-tipped fingers in his, draping her sloping shoulders with jeweled globes of tiny wild grapes, sliding between her knees with his rough, eager hands.
Bright green leaves surged among her dark needles. Ropy tentacles enveloped her trunk. Humans came, surveyed the ravishment, tried to rescue her. But he cannot stay away. Slithering in by her maidenly roots, or arching over from the high branches of the grove, he always comes back to her, and takes her again and again.
Some of her branches turn brown. She droops. She withers. I sit by her in the moonlight, desperate to save her, to stop the depredation. His coils tighten. He ripples, muscular and taut, turgid. And she sighs. And finally I understand. She is dying, yes. But she is dying in slow ecstasy. And she wants me to leave her alone. With Him.