America used to be a circle, golden sphere of sunlight
spinning round her deep sweet rivers, ‘neath her sacred ground
Caressing myth and rock, her leaves of oak and maple veins
Her sap was sweet and simmered long, over embers ’round the flame
days of fire-flies and falling stars, that lay in sweet fields of hay
and the low bellow of cows who took the slow journey down soft paths.
But moonshine eyes have stolen her, under cover of the cool night
to bode above the world, in the bowels of the city lights
a realm of splintered abstract art, velvet lips that speak the dark.
With patchouli scent behind her ears, and nightmares at her heels
she strides quickly into the night with her Nefertiti eyes
Breathing in the distant stars, and howling at the silver moon.
And now, the dawn will shake her orchestra of shattered sound
fold opal beams of fragile light, her pale sky politely calling,
spinning round her deep sweet rivers ‘neath her sacred ground.
America is a circle.
Karen K.L. Espaniola April 14, 2012
