There is a number, a precise hour, minute, second between the sun’s revolving door and the moon’s sparkly shine when the world grows quiet and lavender fields weep violet. Do not cry for me sir, no, no, no. You must never feel worried or woe. Do not spill your tears; I do not know my tempest time. Smile instead when you see me, a soft hello and gentle nod will do just fine. When I am gone on the kindest, whimsical breeze and the golden hour has arrived, be deliriously happy. Be filled with bliss, for I have known intimately the warmth of the sweetest honeysuckle days, and the bravado of the darkest, muster your courage, silent starless nights. Do not cry for me even then, for I am finally headed home where lavender fields are plenty. Pain and sorrow live outside the body, and the mind soars free, high above the tempestuous storm clouds and evergreens. The overwhelming depths of technicolor love is the gift sprinkled behind of a well-lived, bountiful life. What remains is hope, courage, strength and the honor of an honest legacy. Another existence eagerly awaits, thriving inside the bud and promise of a new blossom, a purposeful soul undiscovered. Young, fragrant and filled with the rays of ripe sunshine against all odds on the gloomiest days. The four o’clock hour, my favorite, sings melodic and the birds chirp in unison while the second-hand chime sounds divine. I’ll be heading on home then, and you? Well my darling friend or foe, you’ll be just fine. Don’t count the seconds if you can. Remember, they are not mine or yours to keep. Dream lavender fields a plenty instead that weep violet, filled with beautiful sorrow and promise.