Caught up in a whisper of wind. The buds bobble and bloom. Dead, we behead, and the petals freckle below.
Purples and blues. They tower and confuse. What is your name? I've forgotten.
And mint. You are plucked. Oils released between our fingers. We breath you in with eyes closed. The world goes silent.
Petunia. So regal and fruitful. However did you tear? Perhaps it was the wind...again.
The baby greens. Not quite there. Drink. Drink. By weeks end, I think.
The air grows chilly as the sun falls, but there is still so much more to see...