Purple is a time of year, wine pressed from out of our lives. Purple is royal, the true color of blood, what courses through our veins. The dangling, feral gentility of wisteria and orchids. The most costly of linens and dyes from the under the sea. At the borders of what we can perceive, the furthest reaches of our small and precious spectrum.
The purple lights about us presage illumination, the final colors before everything fades into white. Treading upon violet paths are the surest and straightest ways, humble for it being affluent and full of worship. Thick and old vines fructify impurpled, roots deep into the earth where is old blood from those dead long ago. And now, an impossibility of eyes looking out into the world of rare shades and telling spring from out of old things laying deep in the earth. In the spring, all around us, purple is the halo of the wonderfully old made young again, and about it in circumference, feeling purple is the crossed threshold of wisdom.