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The Purple House, From Above

It's a small mauve gift.
The sky-writing aviatrix,

if she glances down between letters,
might think of it this way.

Dropped on the tall yellow grain,
and nobody about.

She'd like to be alone in her room
and open it slowly.

I look at the garden,
imagine what the aviator sees.

When I look at the roses,
I see six child choristers

dressed in red cassocks with
ruffles around their necks.

I love their song, their hymn.
I feel alive, and the sky is aviatrix blue.

She won't hear it. And, anyway,
she's gone.

We look up again and see
smoke circles fade.

I think of possible words;
they're gifts I open, slowly.