February is upon us and surely we will all receive a dozen red roses come the 14th. Right? Well, most likely I will have to buy them myself or take a photo at the grocery store (see above). After almost 23 years of marriage, the "wooing" is more a (very) steady (hot) ember, not a raging fire, and believe it or not, I adore it this way. However, if my mother had told my teenage self this, I would have rolled my eyes and most likely uttered "pathetic".
(Ember as in smolder/simmer not as in dying out. Oh boy, I might get in "trouble" with my remark :)
Hello, toads! Grace (also known as Heaven) and I, Margaret, have collaborated for this "In Tandem" challenge keying in on February as the month of love. Grace the teenager, me the mother. I believe we ended up with a poem that pleases us both, and I hope you enjoy it as well.
Lessons in Love
He loves me, he loves me not.......
I carry this ache in my breast
Is this what love is, mother,
a madness that strikes your bones,
rattling all sensations, snatching thirst
until nothing sates your cup
like his hands on your cheeks ?
Do I tell her I remember
youth unbridled, love
that a woman’s heart
is made to break a hundred
if not one thousand times?
There is a fire raging my hands
Is this what being in love means,
To be a seed, potted with words
Bursting with color, shape & rhythm,
I quiver like bowstring, an artist
coming of age, I write until his
breath lingers in all of my words.
Do I warn her an inferno consumes,
rages until nothing is left?
Love is a fire
burning steady and true,
yourself reflected within his eyes,
an image blossoming,
propelling you forward like an arrow,
straight and true,
his voice blending with yours,
hands faithfully molding,
lips forever encouraging.
His love wounds me mother
I am drowning like a seashell,
oiled in coral, burnt desert sky
Is this what mercy is, an amnesia
of memories that swims with the tide
until everything is swallowed dry by the sea ?
What do I say as her love lies bleeding,
youthful innocence hemorrhaging?
Would she understand if I told her
a woman’s heart is a flower
never ceasing to bloom,
roots extending, petals reaching,
forever nurturing, regardless of
“He loves me, he loves me not”.
Some things are as old as time,
must be experienced and survived,
so I wrap my arms around her
and for now, say nothing.
by Grace & Margaret, February 4, 2013