The Gift

A lock of the hair
that spends her days and dark nights
smoothing the curve of my thin neck
like the wind gentle in the branches
of a willow.

I tie her with a red ribbon
for luck and as a reminder
of her royal lineage of joy.

The sensation of finger tips
near the edges of a mouth tired of talking.

The knowledge and wealth of kings
content to walk in gardens with children
and wisest elders quoting ancient poetry.

The yellow of filtered dawn
and the absolute blue of twilight.

Stars.
Let me gather stars
into baskets of longing
and set them drifting
in your happiest dreaming.

The laughter of my belly
carved with hope
to place her warm
next to your compassionate kindness.

Turn your palms skyward
toward the heavens of early winter
and I will bless you,
take your sweet face in my hands
and guide you safely to tomorrow
in one slow dance of peace.

Four seasons
and all the direction spirits
will turn their good gazes
stopping time to watch you
accept the gift of your birth rite.