A New Morning's Song

Through the oak, the maple, the pine and fir,
Where these thoughts, beliefs, and arts concur,
Pads along a king of no castle, a master of no manor.

He passes not the distance; his sheer grace is beyond it.
It's like the ground moves instead, when night's candle is lit.

He's got breath of steam, and lungs on fire,
He's passed the hills, the plains, and the mire.

Time grows tired, the candle's wick whisper's low.
And he has run on, for longer than you can know.

Surrender is a sin, as he commits himself whole,
He keeps on running, past the river, past the knolls.

The candle goes out, and a lantern is lifted,
The task grows nearer, the man has shifted.

And here he has come, to this tall cliff face,
To sing farewell to the moon, and he now turns in place.

His back to the gold, he walks slow and true.
This wolf sang his song, for the moon and morning's dew.