The face in the trees gazes down
in solemn splendor at the
moldy remains of golden days
and all the wayward children.
Some might say those arching brows
are tilted in gentle mockery of
our grasping futile efforts to
corral the wild and leafy tide.
Yet in this kindly kingdom no
idle purpose lays lightly on
the land in which the essential
feminine has chosen to reside.
For she arrived on the wings of the
west wind and random chance,
as perfect and complete as ever
envisioned by a whimsical God.
This humbled prince sits quietly in
the blades of grass, and would wish
for nothing more than to abide
beneath that gaze and by her side.
copyright r.b. franklin May 2007