The vinca, un-bloomed, ready for

Its’ planting, cupped in the hand.

Knees bent to the ground, the same

from which the roots will sift for

food. The white, as your skin

would be had not the sun saw fit

to freckle and darken it. There is

no reminding me of you in the red,

no rouge from the finger, so few

adornments you choose. The name

of the color, lilac, not violet, paired

with lace beneath the neck, will

be this summer’s dress.

RLB 02/09/2022