The Blue Hour

The birds have not departed

 their summer place. Their song

 still becomes the voice of dawn.

 But now it is the blue hour

 and  its hyacinth light -- surrounds a woman

 in pensive thought.

 

 Not grief for miscarried love

 or children --  but longing for days

when she found her deepest lines

 in the stone's crevice or the mosaic

 of a dragonfly's wing. When ideas

 spawned in her bloodstream 

 and the season never slowed.

 

 Days when she always migrated

 somewhere new

 with swallows and milkweed,

vespers and shadows,

echoes of horn or bell.

 

Days when the muse

never paled like her scent

along the garden's throat. A perennial loss

of breath, expression.

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This exquisite image is the fine work of French artist,

Marie-France Riviere. More or her delightful paintings can be seen at

her online blog along with more notes on this poem's origin and
inspiration. -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.com.