The Crown That Borrowed Dawn

Mist unlaces the path.
Leaves keep last rain, stitched in their ribs.
She stands like a doe that has learned a human name,
a linen slip snagged on the thorns of weather,
arms folded as if the day were a bird
she means to warm.

Petals climb her hair—patient stars—
breaths of orchard pink and milk-white.
A breeze rehearses on her shoulders:
fern-scent, bark dust, a pin of cold.
Behind her, the woods divide:
one road dark as a kept story, one tasting of light.

Her gaze is a match unstruck.
Even silence has wrists—slender, vigilant.
Where she turns, air unbuttons;
a finch stitches sound through the understory;
minutes go soft-hoofed around her.

Then the crown brightens. For a moment
she wears a ring of salt-bit stars—
a weather of beginnings.
Pines ease their shoulders; moss levels its breath.
Which way will you walk: the hush-kept track, or the gate of daybreak?