dance the autumn breeze
the third woods in a small town
laurel crowns her head
she thinks he holds the moon up with his hands
see the king’s grace
make its way
from his domain
to the village vein
silver pennyweight
thirteen birds fascinate
a glimmer of light in the fall of the night
there’s a whisper that gently mocks
famished for the stars in the sky
but hesitations grow where sensations hide
see the king’s grace
expostulate
deliver all from evil as he
heals the village pains
monuments to consequence
frailty belies their fractured pride
clouds overcrowd what the seasons shroud
the trace of the dream when it seemed so proud
her home is the thought that invites her to stop
and learn the difference of here and now
see the king’s grace
dissipate
from those dull ways
to the present day
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