This entry is part 43 of 55 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2012


Some days, you do not want
to wrestle with; you do not
want to try too hard—

you know that even an only
steady rain can beat back
the just-purpled heads of

lavandula: and so you set
the pot to shelter under the deck
awning until the mist has risen

from the trees. You wait until
the air has rinsed to clear,
remembering the Old French

lavandre, to wash, the Latin
lavare, also to wash, as you go in
to close your eyes in the bath.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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4 Replies to “Lavender”

  1. Thanks for reading, Lou. Where in central NY? I wish we had lavender festivals around here too.

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