Seasons of Violet.

We called her Violet, and she was.
We knew her when she was young and pale, during Fall
And when we'd climb old trees, their brittle branches
Like welcoming arms
Would snap in two
And we'd cascade to the earthy ground
Carpeted with golden and red and orange
And as we fell,
Secretly, she'd wish with all the goodness in her heart
That she were a leaf as well
That like a leaf, she could be swept away to some distant place
In arms that would not break
In arms that belonged to people who truly loved her.

We called her Violet, and she was.
And with the changing of the seasons,
Winter had taken away her smile and replaced it with the cold blank
Crooked frown
A frown that could only belong to a soul like hers
To a soul that had wished to be a leaf
But had became only the scent of pomegranate and midnight
Perhaps people would embrace her only to get drunk on her scent
But my love was sincere, and it mingled with her berried essence
As I would try to will life and warmth back into her.
A gift she would not, could not take.
Not in tea cups or buckets.

We called her Violet, and she was.
But as she grew, she was blue no more,
And her feet would curl downwards in the Spring heat
Her warrior roots taking hold of cool soil
With arms outstretched, she would welcome the sky and earth
In all it’s weight and faults.
With the grace of the morning sun
She would meet her children with a pearled smile
The song that welled within her and her friends sprang out
And echoed through all of them
So they would not wish to be leaves any longer.

We called her Violet, and she was.
But I do not know her anymore,
For she became a leaf,
And then a stone,
And then a tree
But in the end, the herald of summer stole her heart
A humid wind curling around her form
And taking her with him
Through skies as clear and as magnificent as her touch.
Now I watch wood burn upon water in the hands of God
And wait for my pomegranate friend
To return to me once more.