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Purple Mist

Perhaps it was from sheer numbers 

That she first sighted the redbud trees

Then she mentioned their tiny blossoms

And how they grow in such abundance—

Enough to cover every big limb and small

The longer she talked the more I could see

She had a special love for redbuds

Their flowers . . . what are the colors she asked

I told her they looked pink to me

But like so many other times she disagreed

No they’re more of a Magenta . . . Mauve

Lilac . . . Eminence . . . or maybe Periwinkle

Plus other names unaware

Finally she called out a shade of redbud 

I wouldn’t have thought to say—one that 

Gave but a blur of color from afar—

Purple mist . . . yes that’s the name 

And one I have continued to call to this day—

That and the Symbol of Springtime in America
I told her I liked purple mist . . . It sounded poetic

She said why don't you write a poem about it

So that's what I did!

©️Copyright 2022 By David Lee Thompson