“she said ‘when you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation’ and I took her hand “
                                                  William Stafford
 
 
She said “if it’s not free, it’s not freedom”
and that if you must kill for your kingdom
your homeland will never be anything 
save a mute slave shackled to the dieing.
I knew another hue had been added 
to my work, knew neither joy nor sadness
and that it would bring the forks and torches.
Deep fear can breed a passion that scorches.
 
My muse claims to know a secret world
where the children speak the olden words. 
When she whispers yellow, touches the air
I smell the sticky counter at the fair
in front of the cotton candy machine.
The pinks become glass of Rose Eglantine.
She sometimes blends color with the senses
even then the time, distance or tenses.
 
Beauty by name or then any measure
pointed out that any gift or treasure 
requiring gratitude is not given 
(transferred never freely, putrid midden)
just payment for rehearsed gratitude lines.
A clear truth had been spoken for all time.
The ancient language has no word for blue.
She said “freedom is free, my gift to you.”