My son,
I bequeath you a crown.
A mantle of office;
a golden round;
which you will fashion,
and alter,
to make it your own.
 
Just a slip of a girl
when I had to make it fit.
To fill the shoes of a beloved father
is task enough;
imagine the weight of a crown!
 
You, perhaps, are more ready than I,
and you know, more than most,
that Kings and Queens
are not gods;
for people are malleable, like gold;
and, lest we forget,
kind hearts weigh more than coronets.
 
Long lines of ghosts parade before you
as time grows old.
But this golden orb,
reformed and restructured,
stays true.
 
For a crown, like a man,
may be tarnished by tears;
or polished, like gold,
by the weight of years.
 
So, take it, my son;
make it fit;
hold your head steady.
 
My son,
you are ready.
 
 
By Virginia Betts, 2023. 
Image by www.vecteezy.com