huntswoman, what season?

Thriving on historical fiction and late summer flings, hardly
tolerating yankees and their temperamental, northern climes
Taking things in and spinning things out, but perhaps
not as much as once she did,
there she sits quietly, still , centered. and waiting

in the middle of an improvised but otherwise
perfect concert grand of threads, strings, bells and stops
she plays her harp for the helpless with a hint of immortality
waiting for a sympathetic resonance with
the music and rhythm of his release

she deliciously dreams of casually gazing
through a crystal-clear glass picture window in her smart,
suburban home on a desirable
cul-de-sac somewhere nice on the gulf,
finally unbridled by bridle-less fools

within her stomach, without her heart and veins flows
the genetic material of an hundred friends and foes
now vanquished, combining and recombinant
a complex stew of distinction, death, and domination
delivered mostly from the top.

But as she sits and dreams in the center of her web in the center
of the world, she grows conscious and cognizant of a want
she yet hungers for, something she hasn't yet tasted,
ingested and destroyed. Transmutated.
She knows not what it is but damn, she tries

Suns and moons come and go, comets
approach with great expectation and then quietly forget to phone
her fangs grow dull but, when summoned,
still deliver, swift, confidant quietus
they glisten in stillness, thirsting for colorful chaos

with four legs on, four off, love and respect for
the way in which you struggled, now love me, wed me,
lather me, fulfill me, make me a rich widow,
bestow me a fat pension, and move me somewhere nice
on the gulf, before winter