Encomium to the Queen

(or, She’s Like a Rainbow, if you prefer)

The beasts dance in unison
to the sound of her name,

and

beautiful seasons leap forward,
full-fledged with deep red and
orange roughs of leaves hung
garish on their necks under
moons larger than any moon
we’ve seen since the first days,

and

sudden whirlwinds of butterflies
careen in careless spirals across
the air with her coming, short lived
but happy for it, for they will never
live outside the bright heaven of
her light, the fragrance better than
perfume or honey upon the wind
when the tiniest of exhalations
passes her lips,

and

if a she exerts herself enough to
sweat, or feels enough to cry, or
is hurt enough to bleed, any
sanctified droplet will sprout
a riot of wildflowers upon the
heather where it falls,

and

she is all things to me, and also
nothing, for I have never seen
nor truly believed,

but

I have hoped, and hoped so
hard that the aching starts
in the roots of the big teeth
in the back of my mouth,

yes

sometimes stopping but never
giving up,

and

I’ve been all the better for the
hoping, for hoping in the vague
directions of a perfect being always
adds up to more than letting on
that she doesn’t exist.