Permission

Lexanne Leonard

There were purple grapes and green leafed vines
printed on the fabric of the first dress
I made with my mom’s Singer sewing machine.
“It looks like it.” My best friend commented on my handiwork.

There were lilacs of purple scenting the air
as though the day had just been laundered.
The bush hanging so heavy with blooms
I thought a cloud had come to rest in Annie’s backyard.

And then there was the purple couch.

“Who would ever buy a purple couch?” muttered my mother.
With its deep, thick pillows and velveteen touch
it cradled me when she was taken, too soon,
without anyone ever asking my permission.

Prompt

Choose a color that ties together several significant items from your life and connect those items in a poem.