Tonight's Poet Corner: Violet

Violet
by Belinda Roddie

It wasn't just the flowers we picked, or
the amethysts we collected, or the wine
we drank, or the eggplant we sliced
into thin enough strips to fry to a crisp
and crunch on during a hot Gulf afternoon.

It was also my new button-up shirt,
your hairpin, and your lipstick.
A color choice some might call "bold"
was simply natural to you.

We knew that the sun above us, while
giving us life, would also grant the world
as we knew a permanent, scorching sleep.
Red to orange to yellow, though who knows
if green grass would ever grow again
under a sky that was no longer blue or indigo.

But for now, we had the violets.
In buckets, in barrels, wrapped in ribbons
like gifts for nymphs, tucked away
behind ears and hiding secrets in their
fragile necks of vases, muted forever.

And growing wild. Born wild.
And meant to wither in their wildness.

We always had the violets.