Into her torn shoes fell the rocks.

She let them crumble, let herself bleed.

Trudging towards her tryst with trees,

under battered broken branches she

could see her palace where she reigns.

She ruled the forest- she was queen.

 

Not a derelict or disgrace- queen,

of cotton moss, lonely vines lost rocks,

let quiet conquer, let solace reign.

Face to the sky, she watched her branches bleed,

saw warmth reveal columns, unveiling her trees.

 

“Spring must be upon us,” whispered the trees.

Clear the ground, clear the sky, clear the mind of the queen.

Open her eyes and guide her as she

aims to ascertain, broken open she bleeds.

If only life was simple like the dew-kissed rocks.

But once the sun comes, understanding will reign.

 

And April cried its routine rain,

but her sobs adorned the broken trees.

Colors once distinct now blend and bleed.

The water, pebbles, trees and rocks

now stand in harmony with she.

 

“New beginnings!” exclaimed she,

a new principle now reigned

supreme. And so agreed the stones and rocks,

as did the branches leaves and trees.

No wind too strong could move the queen.

Strong as her forest, she would not bleed.