There is no cherry tree.
There is mud and blood and winter.
There are letters and orders to his farm manager
written by candle light detailing chores to do.
There are letters written to his British broker
complaining about low prices for his corn.
There is nothing lofty written about democracy
but there is something about the country
he surveyed beyond the mountains.
There is nothing about democracy yet
but he is tired of being told what
he can and cannot do.
Tired. Of a King.
Of being told what he can
and cannot do in his country.
There is a letter in which he orders
a uniform he designed himself.
It does not fit very well
because he does not know his size.
He wears it anyway.
Democracy.
Design and redesign and self-design.
Democracy.
Something lofty was written
in mud and blood and winters.
Democracy.
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