Waiting for the Purple Rain

Today, on the train, after knitting four scarves and finishing a skirt, I began to put together a poem. A poem about the Purple Rain. This is a first draft. And it all came about because I still haven't begun the faces for the last six bears. A drought in face embroidering. Bears without faces. My imagination roamed as the train passed the trashy back alleys of factories and warehouses.

Faceless is the city
That hides inside its bolted gates
Empty windows glare
at dusty streets below

where are the people you might wonder
where are the children
who should sing and dance and play

you write your questions
in the ever blowing sand

they keep on waiting for the purple rain

silent is the city
solemn stand the iron gates

the world beyond lies gray and barren
heaven shows no mercy
to the field of wilting flowers

you walk along the city wall
and touch its crumbling stone
a mother bird cries out to you
from a crevice in the fortress

you keep on searching for the purple rain

Spider woman paces in her corner
Weaving nets to catch
the dew that never settles
spinning dreams to stay alive

why does she do it you might wonder
why does she believe in magic
that will not come to pass

you plant your worries
in the ever shifting sand

she keeps on hoping for the purple rain

until one day a fog surrounds the city
and mists the iron gates

soon the flowers in the field
lift their heads and shine
the mother bird begins to feed her hungry brood

you stand and watch the city gates
open to a purple flood of life
the windows fill with happy children
spider woman sings a grateful chant

you start to find the answers in the faces of the purple rain