"Grace"

As this city crumbles
Still the blossom cascades
Translucent and contemporary
Like moths and dew and baby's braids.

As pity fumbles
To a stutter and a grumble
Who we are we gamble 
Over patronage and accent trades;
I made my own
Flowerings on the vine,
These flowerings are mine.

Cradled in my hands 
Are the remains
My face is not what is seen
But what I see, what I believe;

And in this city
The blossom cascades.

Written by
Liz Ryder