a three hours' ride from woodstock in poetry

once-purple prose turned to poetics in the violet haze
just as once-flowered hairs gave their way
to a distinguished touch of gray
in the half-century that occurred side-wise
we sighed then took to our sides
singed our edges in a way then
all signed ourselves off for pay
co-signed tangentially and coasted to the coast
toasted old fortunes, singing marching tunes
then sighed a second time approaching this high noon
some tenuous five decades later we fall upon this day
a mere three-hour drive to the south and yet
entire lifetimes’ lengths away

the ultraviolet lights burnt out too bright
vibrations past what human eyes can see
blazing only in the notice of the birds and bees
because, you know, that’s where the past goes
never gone, just invisible to our sight
just like the colors in formerly-flowered hair
reds and browns still really there
as that’s the way history actually flows

the violet hazes fading back into a purple prose
just a few hours’ drive south and
an entire lifetime down the road

Last updated May 14, 2019