— Inspired by "she of the pale marigold" by Danny Beatty
melodious murmurs of dusk permeate
my contemplations of autumnal cellos echoing on crisped wind
burdened oaks rise slowly beneath brisk flurries
bent, but never cracked against the night sky
butterflies' stained-glass wings drift forward
where many gardens flourish
stones fall from mountain's fickle memory
cast below into valleys of lace and song
he listens to my breath as I slumber
and smiles at rivers flowing to the sea carrying quiet laughter of leaves
dew upon the petals once wept in joyfulness
all the children we remember we once were
are wisps of smoke aloft as fireflies on a summer's eve
he of the pale orchid
his hands stir within my hair weaving threnodies
winding symphonies inside dawn's ascent
our realm bespeaks of royalty
though coins are scarce, our crowns gleam
he of the pale orchid spends his delight
upon furtive movements of birds whose crumbs are savored,
cast onto wooden floors by silent passions of wings
shining in the midday sun
sailing we are on open waters
our shadows stretched toward new horizons
he gathers me like driftwood;
not for the burning,
but for the feasts yet to come
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