floral crown:

We walked the banks of a polluted river.

A sickly sun fighting its way through the haze.

She wanted to make a flower crown,

just like she saw in the picture books we read.

Even after she lost everything she was still a child.

Innocence it seems grew in strange places.

It spoke to my soul in a way words couldn’t.

Watching her pick withered flowers with a smile.

“Look how many I have!” she said beaming as

we set to work weaving them into a ring.

One small enough to fit her head,

yet somehow it was large enough to hold all my hope.

That she could look armageddon in the face like that.

That she could smile and make a crown of flowers.

The princess of a small remaining oasis of purity.