trim with lace
the meadow bed
for your wild monarch
butterfly rests his head
in your chambers. Would he stay?
You ask. Faithfulness is not his
to give. Yet you stay with your merry
ways until Autumn’s cold winds do you part.
Hope is a gift that lets you stand even
when the world seems to plot your fall.
Too many times your eyes had shed
tears that drowned a weaker soul.
In your hand they are pearls
rising as prayer
that your heart be
An Etheree for DVerse Poets.