Photo from Unsplash.
You bestow the crown as if
your own creation, as if
your sapling thumbs could tie
stems and protect their petals
from your own passion.
Seconds ago, I saw your hand
plunge into the dog’s mouth—open,
innocent, a single whine to welcome
and tremble at your wild love.
Those drooling fingertips
pat my hair, pasting flowers
trimmed with dirt and spider gauze
you gathered in my blink.
I swear you treasure every mess
you make. I see it now
in your beam, tender for my eyes
and a wilting wreath,
perhaps in equal measure.
Freeing your hands
from the chain, your joy breaks
through in cryptic babble peppered
with the words you have for this:
roses, mama, mine roses
