Pregnant perfume

Lingers on petticoats drenched in moonlight.

Locusts and lilacs waft in the air, 

drooping lacy edges mingle 

upside down in palest 

white clouds. 

The lilac’s tender mercies mirror the sky, aquamarine and violet. Hush, Hush. Breathe. Tis all. 

The locust is brittle, 

graphite and gnarly, good for fenceposts; 

so I’ve heard.

In the hedgerow, the locust tree

demands attention. Her crown is

precious, jeweled in white. Her body is

gritty and you dare not shake her limbs.

Soon enough the moon’s shadow 

will skirt the vale, shallow whispers ride the wind. 

A flicker, a moment. Stillness.

In the twilight, the locusts and lilacs 

drop their petticoats to the ground.