Ode to the marigold & mauve sunset

by Molly Bolton

glowing my hands

on my steering wheel

gold, like Mary’s when she cups

her immaculate heart.

Ode to you, lavender-whipped

clouds signaling my escape route. I left

the lemon cupcake party before

the grown-ups had their wine,

slid into garden thyme to cry. Now

Blue Ridge wind might float me off

like lilac cumulus, the blooming shade

of my baby’s face

when he was born, moving too fast

to be anything

but purple sunglow and mist,

shape-shifting

into hazy mountain dusk.

I’ve never met a mourning

mother whose heart wasn’t

a ripening sky.