Purple slides and dances, sways soothingly and silently. It doesn’t draw attention to itself as it billows into the room, but everyone notices just the same.
Purple was born on a grey and cloudy spring day, the wind blowing, its eyes closed, the edge of blue straining to find the sun. Purple grew.
Purple takes me to Italy. We go cliff jumping into azure seas. Purple takes me to the desert. The shadows of the canyon are purple as they beacon relief from the squinting heat. Purple takes me to the willow. I lie on a quilt beneath undulating branches as purple and I watch the smoke puffs high in the blue wisp and sigh.
Purple likes dusk. Purple joins pink and red to stand and wave as long as they can, until their arms are decidedly sore and they’re out of breath with the exertion of good-bye.
Purple wishes for summer ripe tomatoes. It wants to eat them with cottage cheese or perhaps a bit of salt, but certainly wants to bite solidly into the fresh flesh and try to not let the juice run down its chin.
Most people don’t notice the garden gnome hiding behind purple. Purple is a little embarrassed because it likes to have its picture take with gnome wherever it goes.
Clanging, banding trolley cars aren’t purple. Nor are bellowing bulls or bleating butting goats. Cawing fighting blackbirds aren’t purple either but they wish they were.
Purple is a box of marbles, with a piece of chalk on a string for drawing a perfect circle. Purple wants to win all the shooters and loves to look at the swirly plasticine within and wonder how it got there.
Purple is a song of the evening, a lilting tilting reedy song. A song that desires company by the bonfire crackling , in the patio furniture cicada buzz. A song that rises in the summer waxing to rest a sticky day.
Purple is a peacemaker welcome wherever it goes, enjoying the company of princesses-to-be and those who never received their gilded invitation. Purple invites others in and offers more. Purple draws one to its Creator, shows the world Who made it.