I have always wanted to write
a poem about the color purple —
to simply say how beautiful it is
among all the colors; to go so far
as to say that everything that’s
beautiful is purple in color
or has at least a purple hue or glow,
especially when it burns as an
electric light in a humid night,
or when it acts as a leather cover
of a favorite novel, or when it sways
as a dress or gown, or when it sits
as a ribbon upon the hair of a baby girl.
But it would be a most awkward poem
for its ending would be hanging — so what
if purple is a beautiful color? What follows
from it? Nothing follows from it,
so I never attempted to write that poem.
*This is an old poem which I have revised a bit.