When we begin to love, I’ll carry you
this present: a single rose, its clear vase
brushed with baby’s breath, satin bow of blue
to match your iris. Until then, I’ll grace
you with a rose’s single petal, tease
and claim it’s a butterfly’s wing—Crimson
Phoenix, floating symbol of passion. Please
hold it gently, I’ll plead.
Share the lesson:
It loses just one wing after
mating.
Then can’t fly till it forms
another. Feel
its texture, soft as a flower.
Waiting
for your response, I’ll study your eyes. Steal
a glance at your healing lips, dimpled chin.
(If you play along, perhaps love begins.)
Roger Armbrust
March 24,
2013
