Crooning lullabyes to fancied heirs
Bereft of those escutshioned walls,
She hangs her crown upon the past
Hovering soft as a bird in flight
Above murmuring, upturned faces.
Tattered colors fly
As she descends to distant drum
With curtsy low and lively arms.
Cheeks pink against the blood-red roses
Cast by clutching hands
Throat, white as swan's down
Satine slippers in graceful pose
She pas de te's a dulcet plash
and leaps across the royal sward
Scant gossamer skirt, a white whirl.
By: Frances Jean Gildersleeve-Beaupre'
