Standing at Love's window, I wonder
Why I've never been invited in;
I ponder the possibilities .....
Soon glorious fantasies begin

Is it true that roses smell sweeter
When Love gently caresses their stem?
I've heard that birds sing most splendidly
When Love is the purpose guiding them

And they say Love can revive a heart
That has withered like a dying flower;
O, the stories I've heard about Love ......
Its gentleness and its furious power

Even a heart that's grown weak and tired,
Fraught with ashes where once there was fire,
Even for that heart there's still a chance
To rekindle Love's blazing desire

But the years pass, and I've yet to know
If the things they say of Love are true:
That first union within Eden's gates!
The ecstasy angels never knew!

Yes, Love has quite the reputation
For bringing joy where sorrow has been;
But I wouldn't know - that's what I've heard,
I'm on the outside ...... looking in

My mother never appeared in public
without lipstick. If we were going out,
I’d have to wait by the door until
she painted her lips and turned
from the hallway mirror,
put on her gloves and picked up her purse,
opening the purse to see
if she’d remembered tissues.

After lunch in a restaurant
she might ask,
"Do I need lipstick?"
If I said yes,
she would discretely turn
and refresh her faded lips.
Opening the black and gold canister,
she’d peer in a round compact
as if she were looking into another world.
Then she’d touch her lips to a tissue.

Whenever I went searching
in her coat pocket or purse
for coins or candy
I’d find, crumpled,
those small white tissues
covered with bloodred kisses.
I’d slip them into to my pocket,
along with the stones and feathers
I thought, back then, I’d keep.