You can’t make a red rose blush pink,
it’s sanguine face has loved too deeply
to be innocent.
Purple, not blue, colors the violet,
a lie told for too many years.
I looked for blue in your violet eyes.
the joke was funny,
my father, however, said it was blue
and warned me never to repeat it
in the fields where my grandfather
kept his bees on Mr. Granjeans farm,
cornflowers opened their eyes,
winked a welcome to his wild things
and relinquished their sweetness
it crushed underneath my bare foot,
I felt it after it was too late, a few missteps
and damage was done, blueberry
plasma crushed into a virgin white wool rug,
my mother’s joy, just another false step
of mine in her aspiration for perfection
his phthalo blue applied with such
gentleness, brushed and slathered
across white canvas drew me spellbound
learning from deep within
there are no mistakes,
just happy little accidents
zaffer glazed eyes,
Dodger blue home runs,
denim enfolds me in comfort,
an indigo sigh shaped to my curves
soft, well-worn, experienced
Oh, it’s National Poetry Month!!!!
Oh, the choices!
Today I am choosing my prompt from Tweetspeak’s
“Show Us Your Poetry (Jeans)” challenge.
Tomorrow, who knows?