Beauty, The One True Crown

Approaching The Cup

It has the proper format, the proper power
of a noon sung psalm.

We children of the imploring when?
asked to ask, and ask again
what will a proud will never allow?

Watch a son of song with a kind face
ignite envy in stately men
who plan a calendar’d embrace
with ease-filled futures, and ill-kept vows.

The women heavy with canceled longing
have misplaced their perfect tears somehow—
still these plants make
a garden of themselves
and with the one true crown, crown.

For my father read me tales of elves,
laid in bed with me,
a father sent from eternity for me
who took off the shelves
pages flash-dipped in the real  
unspoken soul,

the stuff hearts hold in books
and movies
with magic rings, wizards horrible 

and beautiful things,

and gold.