To His Highness, the Prince

Rapunzel walks long in the vineyard.
The first red leaves
come wrinkled and wet from the chrysalis.

Rapunzel grieves.
The clatter of blackbirds and grackle
grates on her ear.

Rapunzel! Rapunzel!
Let down your golden hair.

The light on the grape is yellow.
Rapunzel walks.
The blackbird that lingers is rusty.

Where bruised fruit rots,
a strumming,
less shrill than compassionate
fills the air.

Rapunzel! Rapunzel!
Bind up your silver hair.