a walk that is measured and slow*

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,

balsamic undertones.

But they have miles to go.

Much to do.

I stand back.

A distant figure, but ever close.

As they pass through me

of me

from me.


I wonder,

when the chalk fades

and bikes discarded,

will they notice my whispered


from the first day

still sweet upon

their cheeks?


[In respond to the Daily Prompt: Sidewalk]

*from Shell Silverstein’s poem “Where the Sidewalk Ends”
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