lilacs bloom in the middle of August their timing washes us with sinews of mountains we seek, it is in this time that gardens, too whisk dawn from the dust we sweep.
I was equivocating in days prior following the holy martyrs who had wept in times before me
the mission of unearthing self brought a sensible irony within
Inked were my words into the air of yours.
declarations are diminutive
for we only avow to deaf ears
views of yesterday were shallow I said,
there were crevasses we missed.
there is company like the sip of one’s favorite coffee, a type of simple bliss enjoyed, peace, the same as solitude where different voices can blanket the other’s words and talking is done to the rhythm of fresh thoughts.
wistful we are with trembling hands, and porous are our defenses against nature’s shower it sweeps in rhythms a mixture of old with new a touch of words, it evaporates petrichor, these shared remains and someday in a moment’s hesitation, it will begin all over again.