A bracelet of shells.

 
The poet with laurel wreaths,
never came down to the locked ward,
where verbs and adjectives and nouns,
are dry roasted.
 
There was the girl who pleased the boys,
54 years making daisy chains
and the one who disobeyed her husband,
37 years whispering to the trees.
 
But oh don't get me wrong,
you were good at placing flowers,
in the chain link fence,
but you never came down to see us,
left all that ancient dew wet heaven,
for Sylvia to run barefoot through.

~