The Crowning

I shall crown your waist with a bouquet
Of fragrant blossoms
I shall plead with the kind sky
Just to drop one silver star
From its shimmering bosom
That I shall press upon your navel

I shall ask the sucked out sickle in the night sky
To lend its softest shine
To the warmth that courses through your blood
That your skin can drip milk
And be textured as the finest silk

I shall plead with the wind to be merry
And waft freshly and briskly past your dale
That I shall fill with birds
Of the sweetest song and finest plumage

I shall ask the setting sun
To turn down its fierce wick
And become a soft crimson
Above the wrought boughs of ancient trees
That you may look up to behold this vision
And O I see your angelic face turned my way