A lavender-misted brume forms corridors
paving her a bedraggled roped bridge; of
platitude she utters not, but strings of pale
pearls, lapping intrinsically into a braided
fantasy

Glowing sun, hazed pink by the horizon's
edge, before it an arch gilded in bleached
effervescent roses; we purify what might
even if it's flesh is scrubbed raw by nature's
own will

Jardin, jardin! Ou est tu? My heels ache
with footsteps not taken, the pursuit of
whither the moon shines on its own, and
winds, sighing, converge from all directions
tranquilly.