In the morning, we rise early.
To cut lavender from the front garden.
Stringing it into hay-like bunches.
Our fingers floral and sweet
sticky with a whisper’s
whispered hint of herbal notes,
But they have miles to go.
Much to do.
I stand back.
A distant figure, but ever close.
As they pass through me
when the chalk fades
and bikes discarded,
will they notice my whispered
from the first day
still sweet upon
[In respond to the Daily Prompt: Sidewalk]
*from Shell Silverstein’s poem “Where the Sidewalk Ends”
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