My Woodland King

3 men sit on a porch at the edge

Of a woodland world

Filled with the earth’s vertical appendages

And a chorus of the empty space’s occupants

Blanketed by the coolness of the morning

All awaiting the turn of another minute

Which are known to evolve into years

Clouds collecting the silence of the woods

Where a king has come from to join them

A fourth sitting in a commonground

We take off our shoes

To walk into the next clock’s movement

Until it has turned far enough

To bring us to a porch again

When we will whisper the stories of our minutes

Amidst the wooden giants and the winds which move them

The stubble on our faces standing as monuments

To an understanding

That though the world turns without us

There has always been royalty

My woodland King


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