Violet
Oh look at this big girl! Today, she turns 12. Violet is a singular spirit. . . and in honor of her day, this poem from oh so many years ago. But it is still her! Still Violet.
VIOLET AT THE CREATION
In April, before the clouds settled
their differences and the lake was still
nervous, she crawled into the garden
while a blue blackbird resembling nothing
more than a catfish sang arias
to give her cover. The apple-hipped
stepmother taught her a secret
game to fool the husband
who wore an egg-yolk jacket,
Dominion stitched in russet on the chest.
The pie-apple bride tossed
the little she high and her giggles
turned to pebbles dibblety dropped
until the husband raised an umbrella.
They tried on names like rumpled gowns.
Nanny goat called herself sloth
and humpback whale was torn
between winter wheat
and passenger pigeon.
Falcon christened himself
sapphire silence, blue jeweled
and unuttered, while she blew
spun glass through the straw
of her bones and plucked
her own name—Violet—from the new grass.
* And all gratitude to VoiceCatcher and Press 53, both of which published this poem.
