(extended by Grok 3)
I asked Grok 3 to take an old poem I wrote and add lines to the interior, being careful to preserve the rhyming structure:
As cotton drifts between the trees,
And sparrows sing to call a friend,
And grass is coifed by solstice’s breeze,
And insects toil, and spiders tend;
While nothing special stirs the mood,
And no one noted calls the day,
She makes a fleeting interlude
And marks the season in her way.
At first the air is very still,
But then it vibrates just a bit.
Her wings incite a noted thrill,
And then her hair is summer lit.
A glow begins to softly spread,
As petals part to greet her grace,
The forest bows its verdant head,
And sunlight warms her gentle face.
Her laughter trills like silver streams,
That dance beneath the noonday glare,
Awakening the woodland dreams,
That linger in the scented air.
The foxes pause, the deer stand fast,
Their eyes reflect her radiant charm,
Each creature knows her spell is cast,
And none can flee her sweet disarm.
The ivy curls to form a throne,
Where moss and fern in homage grow,
Her court is set in leaf and stone,
Where wildflowers their colors show.
At last her eyes make their debut:
With dappled sky she marks the scene,
Then confidently steps into
A court prepared for such a queen.
At once the stage belongs to her.
For that small session then she reigns;
And every aspect must defer
To every edict she ordains.
The breezes halt at her command,
The clouds align to frame her form,
The earth itself, at her demand,
Will shift to keep her presence warm.
Her voice, a melody of light,
Bestows a peace on all who hear,
And in its cadence, day and night,
Find harmony as she draws near.
The sparrows weave her name in song,
The oaks repeat it in their sigh,
The rivers carry it along,
And stars engrave it in the sky.
She speaks, but words in stasis live
Amidst the minds of those enthralled
While matters more imperative
And temporal must be resolved.
Yet still her court remains in awe,
As fireflies her scepter wield,
Their lanterns pulse without a flaw,
To light the secrets she’s revealed.
The moon ascends to watch her dance,
Its silver beams her steps caress,
Each twirl ignites a new expanse,
Of dreams no mortal could profess.
Her gown, a weave of twilight’s hue,
Reflects the colors of the glade,
And as she moves, the world renews,
In patterns only she has made.
But then the air retakes its prize
Retracting all except the light
Still scintillating as she flies
From ordinary mortal sight.
Then words unheard and deeds unseen,
Soon carefully and aptly penned,
Are bound with sessions of the Queen
Preserved by subjects who attend.
The scribes of nature, small and wise,
Inscribe her tale on bark and leaf,
Their chronicles, though veiled from eyes,
Preserve her joy and banish grief.
Each season brings her whispered name,
In autumn’s gold or winter’s frost,
Her essence lingers just the same,
A thread no time has ever lost.
At length, they wait for her return—
That moment when the ether parts—
Repeating every theme they learn;
Impressing each into their hearts.
spikosauropod 
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