Travelling across a path of purple flowers,
Maybe lilacs, maybe lavender;
I am no horticulturist.
My journey: Entire and whole and perfect;
Abound and across from pleasant point
To points of progressional knowledge.
To gaze above, to the quiet rustle of the trees;
Scent of earthen good travels;
The first leaves begin to spiral.
Soon, those lilacs or maybe lavender,
Will wilter away and die, for love;
Their final sacrifice beneath our boots.
Jackson Martin
Arrow Rock Literary Journal 