05-19-2021, 05:22 PM
Seven flowers.
That is how many it took to weave a crown for his mother.
‘Why don’t you wear a crown, mom?’ He asked on a spring morning. ‘Aren’t you a queen?’
‘A crown alone does not make a queen.’ She responded on a spring morning. ‘But if you made me one, I think it could help.’
And on a spring morning, a boy made a crown for his mother. Seven flowers, woven together.
And on a spring afternoon, he placed it atop her golden head.
And on a spring evening she still wore it, for the smile it sent upon her son’s face.
And on an autumn evening, there sat the golden mother, clutching that crown, the flowers were still bright, watered by tears.
He passes seven trees, but forgets to count them. He passes seven more, remembers, counts, passes seven more, forgets again. He follows the river, blue eyes move like ocean waves, watching each rock that pushes up and out of the water, staining against the current. They must grow weary, he knows the feeling. He knows the feeling so well, it has a color, a sound, a name. It slips his mind though when not a rock pushes before his vision, but a soul.
Will you touch me?
Will you tell me if I’m real?
He would think it strange—he should think it strange—he would think it strange if he were not so strange himself. Benjamen presses a pair of youthful lips into his chest. “As real as I am,” he concludes. But, if that says much, if that says anything at all, the boy doesn’t know.
never gave a single thought to where it might lead
image by Gary Bendig
@[kensley]