Violet Comes Off The Trees Poem by Romella Kitchens

Come violet. Come moss.
Come things that matter past contention, blood even eternity.
Men settle down past these fields and coalesce, want nothing more of war.
Men settle down with wives, bread and wine, think this is all
they have, all they need but if wise they know and need more.

The lack of honey and leaf in life are clear.
The dead iris, lilac and sage non provisional.
The single leaf of time spirals down into one of their palms and they
gather their blankets, baskets, wooden wine boxes and walk down the path
To the thicket of tall shadows in a season of growth, feast instead of famine.
The petals here are brilliant purple.
The petals here have not fallen or been walked upon yet by mankind.
The petals are naive to their future.

Then, violet comes off of the trees.
It scent is compelling and surges through them on a spiritual breeze...
This mild honey the most faithful of all souls presses against them the winds.
It conspires with iris.
It conjectures with lavender planted in a nearby garden but is isolate within its
own designations and found out.
It is a subtle truth.
It is a more subtle denial that we would want beauty anywhere, any time in
A colder world yet it confirms that elegiac.
It scent denies contempt and armaments but regales the peace deep
within.

The men and women sit for a while on boulders, on the green grass
understanding but silent, knowing the war of nature to preserve such
truths as this.
Then, they gather up again and leave.
Yet, always remember when violet came off of the trees.