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Purple does not make them lilacs

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A smile on her face,
she smells the flower.
The sun beats overhead
its warmth and heat.
Petals open to the light
and photosynthesize their life.
Is that a grin upon her cheeks?

Deep richness hue,
romantic and true—
that smile and those teeth,
are they real?
Flowers beam upward,
praise the flush from the sun, and
she ever looks like she could run

away from the light,
hide away, scared,
but it looks like a smile;
she's all right.
The flower, the petals,
the leaves: a delight.
Believe it and see: she's all right.

It's the flower's soft secret,
so kept and protect—
she hid all too well
in her shadowy depths.
The flower is purple
but does not require that
it, though lovely, be a lilac.





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