She wore a crown of thorns surrounding her heart and beneath it
Was a bed of flowers made of pastel colors
they were fresher than morning coffee or the sun on a mid-may morning
and i think of what i could have said so that i could trim the thorns he left beneath her breast
but there are no words that could be said whether they be from Keats, to Pointdexter, or me
to make her see her flowers in full bloom.
so i’ll continue to write words she'll never see in hopes i can watch her garden overtake those thorns.