She is plum.
Electric:
ions, atoms,
neutrons and neurons
buzzing - zzzzzt!
shoot from her thunderous cropped hair
when she enters a room.
Smiles a strong-toothed grin and the voltage
kicks up another few kilowatts.
Bounce, bouncy, bouncier
on unseen springs, she rallies
with a firm handshake and a pamphlet.
There's a Cause, always a Cause
and "of course, it's important!"
she admonishes behind bifocals
secured by a hemp cord.
Ever the rebel, the hippie, the feminist.
Seeds left fallow by a life choice
and the appeal of softer hands,
she mothers her familiars instead,
birthdays always remembered,
anniversaries calendarized,
we are gifted
with purple ribbons.
She is plum -
lilac, lavender, mauve, violet, amethyst…
wine. Aged to perfection.
She is
Mother's secret kept
from the Garden Club, a cross to bear
but good for lifting heavy things
and changing the diapers of now great-nieces
and nephews.
She is folk songs
and the spoken word that echoes
off art-hung walls framed
by convict hands
in old buildings with blackened windows,
one political visit away from condemnation.
Applause, applause, applause.
Existing for the annual two-week vacation
on the Cape
where she'll bathe
in rainbows,
sidewalk sketches,
and freedom.
She is
plum.
The first bold crocus
(purple, of course)
pushing boldly through Winter's white quilt.
In dusk,
she's come to terms
with life
and closet doors.
© P. Gomes 2003
