The morning begins in fog. When it lifts, a single bearded iris appears. The plant has several buds; that's a promise soil will keep. Weeks from Spring. She's a lavender beauty. The unexpected has given me a taste for subtle pepper. I taste for words which hint & woo.
Lustre as a concept fair and forbidden gives rise to the idea of faraway--in the beginning of years, one has the unmistakable idea of starting again, renewing vows and redeeming coupons and yet, when walking one might notice the curve of a back, or a road, or a memory. How do we corral that which has left us and yet stays on?
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