It has finally

Come.

The first day of Colour, and the Sky

Smells like fresh lemonade, or Maybe

iced tea

served on a lily-valley-blue Texas porch.

It strokes each sense, scratches my cat ears

The temptations of summer are Here,

for I opened my eyes, which must mean that I slept!

Burning lavender,

I dig in the Earth – Three Stones

One for each of Us, and in a few months

We’ll bloom.

I float down through the village,

Look at all of the hair!

If any of it has ever been shiny, today, Oh,

It shines!  I guess I thought it never would again,

without ever even thinking such a thought.

For a year I was an Adult, you see,

but it didn’t shine as still, as soft -

It didn’t sear and soar like angel wings

and there were bookies and posers, all painted Maroon,

as I paid the bills and my husband played work -

no, I don’t believe in everlasting <but I do, but I do>

But only for my mother, walked in a valley, lily-blue.

He kept the house and I kept his mind, while the clock kept the time -

I remember feeling like kryptonite, but I really felt like drowning,

Because all I really had was money,

and I could not fold a paper raft,

Drowning in a river of my blue, blue, blue.

I’m the kind that must float free,

sticky in the air,

Until I find a place to land

And whisper to the wood -

What if the oceans are really islands, and the islands really oceans?

Laughing like a witch would laugh,

In my own Awe, of a valley, blue.

Now I’m quenched just by the air, my love

And scabs don’t have to scratch.

Now you can play the bachelor man

While I remain the queen, wearing silken lily-valley-blue.

Wood drifts past, with these years,

with these tears,

I make a shoe of it all and call it Sam

and call for my Old Man.

The sky is endless, until the clouds come, but I

Can’t count to one -

I could die a nanny valley-blue, losing my rocker

on the porch – squeak, squeak, slow.

Do you ever want to die because you want to save the blue?

The city slows down and mimic’s the accent of the sun,

son of a preacher man.

Dig, Deep South

For anything we could hit would be gold today.

Dropping

seeds into her soft surface,

Patting

Pushing -

and if only my Tara would swing back to me

It would be perfect.

But if it was perfect, we would not exist.

I still would not, know,

And there would be no lily-valley-blue.