Though when she called it such it was rosemary,
Outside her home lavender grows,
Strong and sweet,
Mellow enough not to sink in the air
But rise, rise like smoke unfiltered.
The walls have changed since she was last here.
They are more pale yellow in certain lights,
But then again maybe they always were
And she just didn’t notice over the many distractions of home.
But she no longer comes home.
And while home will always be waiting for her,
It does exist without her.
Life goes on in her absence, in whatever forms it can,
And it is a good life.
Summer leaves the nights warm and the windows open.
A piano key cat dances along the first floor window ledge,
I named him Miles for the trumpet player,
But he probably goes by many names now.
In the meantime I sit and write,
The smell of lavender resting in my open window,
And a busy mind pretending not to miss you.