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