Purple Martins In The Shadows Of Trees I Have Never Seen

purple martins in the shadows of trees I have never seen,

flicker and then go out.

suddenly.

I am left alone in a violet fluttering of wings

I sense, I do not - see.

not seeking to see.

and this is the music of purple, I would have said softly,

if there were anyone left to hear

in the thicket of words where we imagine the worlds

coloured, the way we will,

when the tidliwinkLing stars pop up

like firecrackers or in the fantastic

way that children

confined to the tropical-

imagine snow

or the way that children in the snow countries,

hearing stories about mangoes, start to shine

with an unknown gold.

for how could we keep from

capturing the azaleas of

the petaled snows next door

to the garden hose,

as if they were butterflies?

unknowing, unknown the steps-

but still, the Ballet! (that we made up)-

exuberantly in the carport

leaping over the rainbowed oil stains

dreamily long

before we heard The Waltz of the Flowers-

and still, is it still the same?

smiled the ghost of my mother,

in the thicket of words, half-whirling like the child 

I may have been in may times formerly;

sifting

the perfumed drifts of something: 

oncoming Night? or at the semi-sparkling least,

transported where

through darkening dusk and opulent:

she calls me back from twilight games

whenever I don't know enough of-

is it the fireflies lingering, sparkling? or

I'm just waiting, here, for the silver-ferried-

brushing away, small tears;

on the back steps

asking, please.

oh, let it be lilacs

mary angela douglas 18 june 2014; rev. 19 june 2014