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