I: The Winter Rondeau of Cumberland

City of the Queen, wove from ancient thread,

Strung with snow trails of spotted fawn and sled,

Drape the hillside in winter’s white ermine,

Pray to sleep the flock from steeple shrine,

Feast on the harvest, though the queen is dead

Her spirit flies in death, descends to shine

On the fair City of the Queen.

From tower bell, rivers rose with tears shed

But her resting stone etched her last design

for the grand City of the Queen.

Where the roads of black ebb to bricks of red

Where hoof and rubber meet the twines of tread

There along mountain tops soft trimm’d by pine

There grows a flower from heights of steep incline

Planted by tender hands unseen to spread

Into the City of the Queen.

• March 2025