I sit so many nights alone like that cold dew forming outside. Alone, thinking of those violets, and how I'll go out for them at dawn. And, in the chill morn, pause and leave a few flowers for you. I pull out a few, and on your tiny statue, adorn it with these fragile gifts I've stolen from the garden again. Passing by, otherwise, would never do.

In an opening under peeling river birch, heavy maple canopy and creeper, we planted all these perennials in arguments..."this here, no, there, whatever!"....to the extent I feel these are not mine to take or give...but I do. And then in guilt, I always leave a peace offering for you that the sun later bakes away on that little statue.

Another sip of coffee with the scent of violets. Sweet companions to the senses when alone and even more sensitive. This morning scent reminds me I'll pick those violets to keep warm and smiling on a raging stormy winter night. They will be a memory in paint; them in bright colors placed in a blue cup, a finding now. A cup I once left near a drooping juniper many years ago, almost forgotten by the pond. The pond is mine. I wanted it, and that was your gift.

I asked my grandmother if maybe you resented me or my youth. The cup was one of a set you never cared for at the time. Its crackled glaze so like wrinkles I should have now. But these are not reflected as the fog rises from pond. The dew forms on what wasn't picked. Survivors from my needs. Sweet violets, and no memorable arguments from them. All they can do is wither as I do.

(c) 2003 Ali Cecilie Sonder aka Rennie Lorca