Olivia Farrar an ode to the season of adolescence if I asked nature a question with a honey-parched tongue, I guarantee that she would whisper an answer through the tint of Russian sage, Not just the violet hue, but the muted fuzz that protects the stubborn bud; the blossom that I watch, while waiting for a reply, but all the bees that are lured by the charm of the peppery fragrance, summertime pollen— distort the lilac wisdom, so I pluck a sprig, praying for no such thing as a writhing sting, and lick its stem pairing the slimmed stalk to Scotch tape, before pressing it in the arid landscape of my journal’s lackluster garden and while I wait for someone to write a conclusion, I fall out of love with my lavender hope trading it for the qualities of Russian sage: silver plumes of pricking back a vibrant fragrance when crushed and memories of my own, archaic laughter. if nature could see my changed shape now, she’d look at me with the reverence of a hiker, stumbling upon a field ridden with paper wildflowers.
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