This is not a poem
But the scent of one just passed by
Lavender from the Dungeness Valley
Petals crushed with rain
scent swimming in a gray sky.

When a poem leaves your body
It is the greatest sigh.
It is the whoosh of the knife
As bone blades cut themselves from shoulders
And the scapula sink lower for a moment
And for once you can breathe just as deeply as you please.

It feels just like words like these.
Pushing up lavender leaves.