Colors of The Azaleas
When I bring in the azaleaswhat's behind me begins to fade.
The supple purple of a petal
is now my color.
I could, of course, look past
the azaleas and watch
the dust in the sun ray;
Or write a memoir for the flower
once dropped next to my feet
on a long journey when I had
neither a home nor a vase.
I folded it between the pages of uncertainty
and roads that led to nowhere,
but I ended up everywhere
in unpredictatble colors.
I picked no color, indeed
was picked by the colors
of forever-changing seasons.
I waited one season
in one country,
and another season
in another harbor.
No harbor is a harbor,
No home is a home
permanent, except our eyes
forever searching for a color
until the rain erases one color
and begins another.
My hands are full of colors
mingled with lips and hair
that I grip and then splatter
on a scroll of rice paper
brought from a remote island
now discolored in the mist
of unbridgeable oceans.
I tried to cross the oceans
on a plane,
or on the blueness of an aerogram,
more often, on a dry leaf or a petal
in a book of poems lingering
with rootless colors.
My heart has been everywhere
like the azaleas
with no identify, no nationality,
living one color in a moment
in the hands of admiration
and another moment under the feet.
Hold me,
Hold me for a moment
for holding the color
of azaleas.
My Blog:
http://stephaniechin88.blogspot.com
Poetry by Stephanie Chin
Read 375 times
Written on 2006-11-29 at 14:54
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