If everyone listened to lilacs,
the way she did that
spring, the world would be
light as a butterfly, balanced
on a spiraling tendril in a
honey-tinted vineyard.
In the distance, bells tolled
the hours, rolling over swelling
hills in round, velvety tones.
One day, as she leaned
close to hear their whispered
secrets, plump purple cluster
filling her palm, a page of
wasp’s nest paper alighted on
her fingertips. The lilacs trembled
while she read, then hung
their heads and sighed to see her,
careful and straight, make her way
across the upturned field,
toward an aproned woman
waiting, screen-door balanced
against one puissant hip.
(c) 2017, by Hannah Six
Image: Valeria Boltneva
No comments:
Post a Comment