Dear Lord, the purple

Dear Lord, the purple

blossoms of wisteria  sweeten this air cottonwood fluff sifts through wood flute music crows’ wings row past me black hopeful mouths full of tatters.

A couple blocks from here the Saint Francis bells chime morning and only the crows call back. One of the jobs of the man here at the hotel is to sweep these blossoms but I tell him I want to keep mine. We speak different languages.

Sometimes my whole body is a prayer sometimes my whole body is the hardest thing to write about sometimes my whole body is a cave fish white with longing sometimes my whole body hasn’t been touched for years.      

Right now You are purple and we’re all speaking hearts blind language blue as this New Mexico sky.

Jeanie Tomasko