Face in the Trees

 

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

 

 

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