She has Ivy twisted in her hair, day-lilies sprouting from the palms of her hands.
She dances with the willows, but she cries with the sun-sanken land.
She lets the daisies dance around her feet, with honeysuckle dripping from the corners of her mouth,
her peonies perking to point due south.
She is garland, oh sweet garland, a beautiful twisted mess,
she is daylight, the sun glowing, in a golden headdress.
Copyright © Rory Wainwright | Year Posted 2019
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