You handed me the envelope of tiny purple wildflowers.
So simply you smuggled her back into my life in petalled repose,
the bonds of our forgiveness were too fragile to hold the paper closed,
unstoppable, she poured out with a blossoming act of violence.
Absent adventures lay strewn across my palm, uprooted illusions
that grey mists cannot disguise. A fundamental insincerity.
The violets have been plucked from the shadowed land of unreality.
They are strong, resilient, and the canaries’ birdsong is wilting.
William and Olivia.
William. Olivia.