A Flirting Hat

I stared at art's silk violet

In wild Roberta's flirting hat,

A worldly, risking, spun bouquet

Of nun-capped blossoms, real to me,

So real they breathed her fantasy.

I turned away to banks of wet,

Leaf-circled, river violets,

Set soberly, without design,

Among mint mosses and grape vines

Unbound by art or fantasy.

I said, "Roberta, which is real,

Which art, which you? How do you feel?"

She laughed, she whirled her parasol

As though all skies were hers to wheel.

She said, "I promise, dear, to be

Whatever striped reality

Best takes your eyes." Ah, then I wept,

And the world's thorn fields turned violet.