Nine roses

Do you blush?  Maybe you’re one of those cool and collected types.  Actually, I’m usually one of those types, except when my “personal life” comes up.  In those cases, I am the most bashful of them all.  I couldn’t actually tell you what colour I turn, but beet red sounds like an accurate description, as all the blood in my body rushes to my face.

I brought a love poem to share with my poetry group this week.  As lunch started, I found myself goring increasingly nervous and regretting that I’d cheekily subtitled the poem “Yes, this is a love poem.”  (One of my friends in that group is constantly accusing my poetry of being about love.  No.  It’s about birds.)  When that time came–“Did anyone bring anything?”  I reluctantly admitted I had…and started blushing.

“Uh, it’s a poem I wrote for Valentine’s Day, so it’s kind of embarrassing,” I said.  (I mean, who wouldn’t bare her heart in gratitude for a bouquet that perfectly colour coordinates with her red and green themed living room?)  I promised that if my face returned to the more pallid end of the pinkness spectrum, I would share.  At some point I steeled myself–blushingly–and distributed the poem.  If I could manage that, then I can handle sharing one with you, dear reader.

Oh, and yes, this is a love poem.

 Your name is a lamp

for the flame of my tongue

and to call out to you

through the dark

sends sparks

through the lacework

of night

I wonder, did the saint

of the alphabet

know the brightness you would be

when he invented the

wheeling majuscule

and smile-capped conclusion

of your name

Sing it or say it, you make me

live every day

radiantly