Lavender scent covering the length of my dress

from walks with you and the mice and the sun

the mice forever ramblers with no regard for time

and the sun was our constant companion then

when the emerald-backed beetles spoke softly

of warmer climes and fine new wings of gold

Even the gruff mountains and their beards of heavy-leaved trees

had begun to wear the best of the harvest's lavender petals

tree fingers reaching up to part the clouds from watercolor skies

just a soft touch to the inside before pushing in deeper still

caressing out the delicate footsteps of much-needed rains

praising them their release among the myths that they hide

Humming and alive you will yet find my restlessness there

it lies selfishly close to a tattered memory of the fabric of you

stitched into a tartan skirt to wrap around my pale nakedness

as I dance and twirl alone in far-off fragrant blood orange fields

where poppies scream and nod for the arrival of your ghost

in a place where often only farmers and romantics roam

To be told that to dream as such is for the child or the fool

erases not the hopes to meet you somewhere in whenever

though hope is pushed aside even from the poet's own pen

may we embrace beneath the trees of those same dreams

pondering the flight patterns of the departing geese

and shouting the whispered words that we still mean