Olivia Farrar

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.

He wears the same color as my name sounds: olive green, and his hair reminds me of an ink cartridge that broke.

He asks me to pinpoint the Pantone of the sunset on our first date,

It’s harder than he thinks.

The sun turns its cheek behind the vertical hand of a mountain range,

and we’re still trying to name that elusive shade of a once-in-a-lifetime yellow;

this is the segue for a first kiss.

He folds like a dog-eared page, and I’m the reader in this paperback, fresh painted dream,

and he tastes of Americano.

I feel the sun shoot back, up to burn-inducing high noon,

and this is the part where I part from the UV sting,

his face is Living Coral red.

I laugh in hues, the mind will never think to name,

and his smile blinds in this dusk that envelops us,

if only all loves were like this.