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.