The Heart, the Rose, the Pen.

Walking with a girl in winter sunshine,
I feel the warmth, her arm around my girth
a stirring starts deep in the heart of earth
tingling in the loins of roots. She’s mine.

Graft strength and marry beauty to define,
she turns, eyes lock, awakening loves new birth.
The little tree thrusts up for all it’s worth
in effort to produce a rose so fine.

He wrote as one with pen, his craft and art,
rich nectar flowing held the dusky maid,
with ruby lips and petals golden heart,
she bloomed a flower of the boldest red.

He reads to her his own heartfelt love sonnet.
She wears his rose with pride upon her bonnet.

Elaine Morris (c) February 2014.

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