The lavender whispers

That relief is long overdue,

And listens to the fears that fester in my fingertips

Illuminating,

In their ill disposition,

A denial of the dreams that sit within the willow trees.

Tickled by the sorrow, only,

Of our weeping limbs,

The plant supposes

All of us that make sights with pens

Will sigh for the lolling of lilac heads

And no longer the perfection of fantasies,

That forever exceed us