A way out of the labyrinth You’re not here to lose yourself; it’s not that sort of maze. Flowers don’t block out the world – they are a map of knee-high stalks, given direction by blooming heads turned to the late summer sun. Walking these rows, you can pretend time stops; you can lay out the wrongs you haven’t yet put right and cut them open, arrange them in columns like debts and payments on recycled paper. There are quiet gods slowing their breath as you stand still in the lavender and listen to the music of mistakes, learning the chords. The sharp soft paths hum and seal the cuts your own apologies made under your skin. You drift out on purple perfume, scars faded, knowing who you were, who you won’t be again.
Kate Garrett
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