The Cretan Wreath

Three licks of bronze, clustered
fingers at the crown.
Then four, then five, oh more,
woven, prickling,
leaves from autumns’ floor,
but gold.
               Take them down,
leaves, stems, drop-like berries,
pebbles, circle-bent,
no wider than a hand, and place it
on the blackness of your hair.
There,
it glitters, like soul
fire. A queen, at last,
has her crown.