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
