Whiling

I sit in the grass
making chains of adverbs
to lay atop your proverbial crown.
Necks of daisies bend back
for my gangliest laurels.
When a small early locust lands
on your thigh, with yellow-green legs
you smile spritely.
Expertly.
Aboriginally.
It is like you are the base state of glory
the world returns to
after every war.