The Crown Borrowed from the Path

She stands where the road forgets itself—
two clay ribbons loosening into green.
A dress like river-light clings to her ribs;
wind edits the curl at her temple.

On her head, a small orchard of pins and buds
keeps its own weather.
Thin wire bites; there’s a sap-sour scent.
Petals listen the way birds do—
head-cocked, ready.

Hush.

The forest does not lean in; it waits,
a hush with bark on it.
In that pause the air tastes of copper rain,
of nettle and the last sweet bruise of summer.
Somewhere a thrush knits dusk to leaf.

The path has chosen her.
Not by writ—by likeness: the burrs know her hem;
she’s half-clearing, half-briar,
turning, almost gone—
and the woods, shushed, widen to let her through.