Barely any fall, gone straight to winter.
I close my hand on nothing, medal I sent her.
St. Joan, brave and faithful, to the very end.
I wonder if there’s some of that to lend.
I think of an old lover, a chill April morn.
I think of a pretty model, her picture torn
From a fashion magazine, to gain her power.
I think of the magic my fear let go sour.
A train to Charlotte, God knows what to.
Her tattered hoodie was a midnight blue.
St. Joan, I want your surety and soft grace.
In heaven you will touch my weeping face.