Crowns

Crowns have never been in style for common folks.
I can’t think of one friend who owns a crown.
Symbols of importance or position, crowns
are reserved for the elite, not the average.

Olympians, monarchs, beauty pageant winners,
cross carriers on the way to Golgotha.  They
know about crowns, and so does an uncommon,
common cactus who lives near my home.  We
got acquainted the other day, and I told her
how striking she is.  Wouldn’t you say?

What causes me to pause, though, is the
odd combination of gentle flowers and sharp
spines.  The metaphor.  I aspire to top off my
often prickly life with a garland of what religion
calls “righteousness” or “right living”, a crown
of peace or compassion or mercy.  And that
crown is assembled one petal at a time.  Day
after day.  Year after year.  A garland of grace.
A crown befitting a prickly old cactus.