Poem by Jenevre Thayne

What is this place, where a city sits

If not stories, to find, reverence

So Artist, and Scientist, and Poor of men

Which one, Worth, Gracious salute, turned head

Are only ribbons, for one achieved

Can, we take time, for, so alone, for grieved

And find in them familiar Art

Place of weeping, the carving of a Heart

Within the realm of pain, deep as seas

Is swimming to breath, a soul made free

The reach of paint on this brush

May taint, yet, not the core in us

Power, Given, within, Color of our Hands

Ours, a Gift, Where, We Take, Our Feet to Stand