I remember the schoolgirl days
when Sister Anne led us out in rows of
blue and white
                 [mirrored in
                 the Dutchware my father painted with
                 quick, uniform strokes]
to the school garden,
pointed hands to plant the
violets.

We breathed their air,
colonies of their gold dust
                 settled in our lungs; sometimes
we carved out twin plantlets
to grow in our window.

And for all those years
I never saw the flaking autumn nights
when Sister Anne stooped,
nunnery cast behind a bush;
crushed a violet stem between
2nd and
               3rd fingers
lit one end
smoked her eyes
                                blue.