violets

five, no more. picked at the side of the garden walk where the gravel meets the moss. they smell of cold turned earth, and they smell of nothing at all, depending on the minute.

the vase is a thimble — silver, dimpled, half-full of water from the kettle. it sits on the keeper's desk between the inkwell and the unfinished letter, on top of the page the keeper has not yet signed. it does not reach the height of the inkwell.

they will last a day and a half. they were never meant for vases. they are meant for the side of the walk.

field-note — the scent of a violet defeats itself. it tires the nose within seconds. step away. wait. come back. it will have returned, fully, like it was always there.

see also: pansies · a single tulip · an anonymous bouquet · the log