One morning, I met and ate with Sappho, and
as we watched the baited ducklets come and go
described to her a calming Violet i had found
within where seeded crops of crocuses grow
who strapped the sunlight as its belle bijou
and subtle symmetry that provided words
to break the heart and warm the blush skin of you
I told her of broken morning birds
simple songs robbed by her brushed deviled tips
I cried of endless pages cast in ink
to describe her perfect purple lips
of desperate letters to help me understand how her love thinks
All other stem of Violetta fail to me
to remind of the shadow cast over flowers then
or to undermine those bright pink cheeks i could see
in its petal hues - usual rhythm couldn't convey to pen
this wild moss of a creature that heavn's sink....
a smile, and she replied
"a picked and pressed flower
for a Violet of my own", said the Girl.