January 2021

How was it

when a queen walked between courtiers

toward her throne?

The rustle of satin and silk,

the dignity of it,

her head held high

while her subjects’ eyes scarcely dared look up

to gaze upon her majesty.

And what of this day in July

walking between wildflowers,

yellow, heads high,

making a path for me by the sea?

The radiant summer light,

the surf’s applause,

the lizard and rabbit escorting me down the path.

Am I more or less of a queen?

My heart knows,

and I will never tell the secret.

Carol Bialock.

This entry was posted in New Paintings.