VII. The Bloom

Part of a poetry novella.

I wear the morning like a crown,
Its gold pressed gentle on my brow,
Yet find the weight too sweet to drown
The hush that lingers even now.

I hum a song I cannot trace,
Though once, I knew the tender tune,
It slips like silk beyond my face,
And leaves me humming to the moon.

The garden laughs in blushing red,
And bows to greet my eager feet,
Yet every rose I softly tread
Wilts quieter than it ought to be.