Sit beneath the Great Oak Tree.
Let it whisper near your ear,
nothingness of which to fear.
For the tree’s roots run deep
past the forest floors to creep,
ever onward, ever outward,
toward dour veins that weep.

There by the window bough,
misery’s company come to caw,
in feathered wing and blackened claw.
The grief of withered sight,
drawn furlong, mid dead-of-night.
Grating mind, grinding bone,
of hunts in past-light.

She stands alone.
‘pon a mantle piece.
Cloaked in satin.
Fine silk,
A lady.
No matter his ilk.
Problems be-lie her wounded men.
In her hands, they let her in.
She remolds them,
like clay,
piece by piece,
shows them to win.

Play upon play. Night upon night.
The dancing certainty of one who is right.
The play may uphold, as certain due right,
any liberties people try to fight.
For art is art, as any can tell,
and in rhyming couplets,
the legends foretell;

That when the stage is set,
she’ll roll down her sleeves,
begin to sweat,
strap on her greaves,
and fight with her feet wet.

Even a performance not quite up-to-snuff,
held in regard as rather quite rough,
All the same her people, the audience,
find hating it tough.

She takes her bow.
Exits stage-left.

Mind consumed
by minute failures,
but nowhere near
bound-up by terrors.
Instead she is thinking,
analyzing her errors,
her thoughts re-tracing,
running upgrades and repairors.

Internal monologues play.
Rewind.
Play again.
She’s adjusting,
re-calculating,
choosing her moments.

Then it comes,
a repeat performance.
Never fail.
Never succeed.
Always,
as good as she needs.
Striving forever to be better,
indeed.

If only we all,
could thus,
be.