Not in Want of Royalty

The breeze enjoys itself for hearts and mind,
Wrests itself against the turmoil, finds thought
for art and grit and all that goes with it,
Reminds it’s time to rend its wine and blow the old man down,

Gives flight to prayer and naught to hair,
Lists favs and pines recoiling
Asks seasons, time; reasons, mines,
Detects the rests—behooves us

Old thoughts of grime and fickle lime,
Small kicks of grunts beside us
Destroys the tethers, frees the nethers,
Aligns the stars behind us

Give it now, the shadow’s plow,
Pitchfork, hay, and feather
Blows the breeze, bends the knee,
And not in want of royalty