Dear Miss Parker

I lament your woeful sins. Our destinies have crossed— the graveyard shift slowly interrupted by the low-lit lights. The willows have dried, but the memory of their bended knees continues. The sagging pillows and weighted sins may rest eternally, but their feathers have found new recipients. Fraternity with the outpour of rain has seen its dry season. Let my summer-fueled flowers speak to you, fertilizing the stern grass that hopes for tomorrow.