Pressed Petals Poem by Ailbhe Eighteen
Pressed Petals
You aimed at me a bow
Of gold and white
Its value, I do not know
Yet that is a hay of temperate summer
Rocking my closet, disturbed
You gave me a rose
A key to the genesis of possibilities
You gave me a music of the heart
A joy to a man's soul
Thank you anyway!
Sunday, June 2, 2019
Topic(s) of this poem: courtship
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5/20/2024 12:42:46 PM # 1.0.0.1119
