Harvest
This is no longer a sign. It is a foredoom.
The purple lavenders
Cut when they are at their best.
The small delicate petals,
Every stalk of its unbending body
Graciously embrace the sun with no hiding
And give out the purest breath to the wind
They are so generous
They know no sorrows
The bees are busy with them
Annoying and marking
Peak of summer
My heart is gone with them
For no reason should I deny my own inevitable Bloody harvest
--
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