after Ruth Stone, “Train Ride”
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.
—Marcus Aurelius
The soul is stained,
is stained with red
from wishing things were different—
dark plum of longing,
burnt umber of craving,
the rubicund ache of desire.
Is it true, the soul is dyed
by the color of its thoughts?
Or perhaps the hues
are shed like veils,
shed like flimsy gossamer shifts,
and the moment we see
that they are thoughts,
they drop away
like robes that have lost
their clasps, yes, drop away
like silken shawls
that slip from naked shoulders.
But of course it’s true
the soul is dyed with the color
of its thoughts—takes on the blue
of avarice, the sticky green
of fear. Becomes the shining
golds of bliss or the navy folds
of loss. Or is it this—
the soul just seems
to don a colored dress,
like the pale rose wrap at dawn
that’s here then gone,
and the sky itself is clear.
Sometimes I feel soul stained
through and through.
Sometimes I shed even
the darkest hues,
like veils, like gossamer shifts.
