Ages, years ago,
you gifted me a tiara,
all spun silver and ivory gems
(the kind you could afford then,
but I didn’t and don’t mind)
like you knew I preferred to gold.

I hope you forgive that a gem
(or two) has eased its way out,
that the worn metal bends where
there once were sloping lines,
that nearly every crevice dons dust,
that the weight of your gift has graced
my head only a handful of times.

I’m not really one for
frilly dresses or twinkling tiaras,
but please know that yours sits
as a scintillating star on my highest shelf,
glowing overhead so that
its presence may soothe me.

So that when I look upon the stars,
I recall your beloved tiara,
this motif of endless, shimmering silver.