DMC 340, Pale Violet
a color poem by Michael Beal
It’s even hard to find in my bag of colors, this pale violet,
snuggled in among the purples and the lavenders
and the grays that go toward red and blue.
I plucked it out, the way one plucks the first violet of spring, that tiny flower with almost no stem
nestled down among the leaves like a jewel dropped
by a forgetful goddess
on her way to meat a god.
Not a big god. Not Weus or Mars or Vulcan,
none of those macho dudes clanking away at major deeds.
No let’s say Aurora’s on her way to meet the god of evening,
the god of winger evenings in Manhattan where the afaterglow
of the sun’s descent above the Palisades
takes on this violet hue,
and Cary Grant in an East River penthouse
starts dressing for a night on the town.
The jewel lies there til spring when Cary and Grace Kelly
chance to find it as they stroll Central Park in the sun.
He wears a pale blue sweater and a crocus-yellow shirt.
She wears a dress of pale violet and a big straw hat with
purple ribbons.
She laughs with the sound of coins shaken in a champagne
glass as she drops the jewel again, an accidental flower in the fresh green grass.