Lilacs lack patience, they thin
the air with their ignorance.
Lavender likewise will glean
meaning from a dry dish rag.
Violets, blue, purple, no
matter the hue, are clueless.
Pansies are for thoughts, or so
I’ve been told to think on it.
I can’t dwell on them for long.
Nothing grows without sunlight.
And this silent existence
just adds more gloom to the room.
One spring, I happened to see
growing in a neighbor’s yard,
purple blossoms on a stalk
staring up at me as I
looked down, found their sweet summer
scent too hard to remember,
like strawberries, like honey,
like mint, harder to forget.
Like candy, that’s it, which if
remembered truly, is sweet,
too. I’d settle for freesia,
knowing our supply of candy is few.