Day 49 of 50 Poems/50 Days

The Angel’s Share

Dead leaves, paper-thin,
stuck and swaying in her hair;
as if caught in her thoughts.

Together they make a crown,
declaring her king.

I stood afar and watched her,
lightly blowing my trumpet.

I blew the instrument
low, calm, like a tide,
until it became a blast –

She turned and smiled,
aware I was always present,
and I watched on,
hoping her crown would shatter.

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