I spoke to the lavender lady. She said she couldn’t hear me out because I didn’t sound like a bee.
She pointed to the ground where her beauty is planted. Then she pointed to her neck tilted sideways to see the sun.
We can never follow the light if we don’t hold on to our roots.
She’s not what I expected. Her tenderness is just a façade from afar. Luring you in to touch her.
But her aroma sticks to you despite your objections.
I spoke to the lavender lady anyway. She said she still can’t hear me.
I spoke anyway thinking maybe my tone can sing sadness like she’s never heard before.
Again, I swore to never go back to where I came from. She swayed with melancholy.
She broke a stem and let it hit the ground. We watched the purple turn to grey.
You can bend for all the world has thrown at you but don’t break. The wind will blow in your direction soon.
She grew on me. Her vividness never hid her sadness. She could always embody both.
I wore her wisdom as my perfume.
I sat next to the lavender lady. We didn’t need to talk. I saw things now.
I sat for hours thinking maybe we could be blessed with coolness in July.
I swore to her I understood what it meant to be a part of the ground she walks on. One and the same.
The sun that reflects yellow in her hair and the soil buried in her eyes.
I admire her. For she seems frail, but it takes a force to pull her out of her convictions.
And while most would prefer her dried out and sealed in bags. I can see her purple forever.
A fragrance so sharp that you can only notice its softness after a little while.