A Place for Purple

Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple

Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple
Leaping like Leopards to the Sky
Then at the feet of the old Horizon
Laying her spotted Face to die
Stooping as low as the Otter's Window
Touching the Roof and tinting the Barn
Kissing her Bonnet to the Meadow
And the Juggler of Day is gone

                                    -Emily Dickinson

I have noticed at Merry Mount that Mother Nature seems to paint her canvas with selected colors related to season. Spring tends to be a time of dominance for vibrant greens and occasional purples.  Summer is a time for yellows; Autumn is filled with red, orange, brown, and olive; and Winter is a time of white, grey, and charcoal.

Politically speaking, we have become an extremely polarized nation symbolically represented by red and blue.  Purple is sometimes used to designate regions that have mixed loyalties. 

At Merry Mount, we (and most of our visitors) strongly lean toward blue, but we live in Madison county, which is predominately red.  In order to keep an open mind, I must be willing to listen to an opposing argument and if it is convincing enough, be willing to “wear purple”.

There once was a man named Merkle

Whose political views were “a-slurple”

He leaned toward red,

Recovered his head,

Then decided he’d settle on Purple.

            -CPW

But I have digressed, and should be brought back to an ideal world by Emily Dickinson.

Purple Cover

There is a flower that bees prefer,
And butterflies desire;
To gain the purple democrat
The humming-birds aspire.

And whatsoever insect pass,
A honey bears away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her capacity.

Her face is rounder than the moon,
And ruddier than the gown
Of orchis in the pasture,
Or rhododendron worn.

She doth not wait for June;
Before the world is green
Her sturdy little countenance
Against the wind is seen,

Contending with the grass,
Near kinsman to herself,
For privilege of sod and sun,
Sweet litigants for life.

And when the hills are full,
And newer fashions blow,
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy.

Her public is the noon,
Her providence the sun,
Her progress by the bee proclaimed
In sovereign, swerveless tune.

The bravest of the host,
Surrendering the last,
Nor even of defeat aware
When cancelled by the frost.

            -Emily Dickinson

Have an opinion!

CPW