I send her roses each and every day.
She asks for reasons, they don't satisfy.
This heart's expression is my only way
to answer each and every question, why?
She plants each one inside a large glass vase.
It fattens in its bulky green-red width.
She waters it hourly just in case
this bulk shrivel by one rose-breadth.
In truth they have no petals and no stem,
no color and no subtle fragrant scent.
The vase is her awareness of them.
They are but words of love my passions sent.
For I am but a poor and broken soul,
whose love for my dear love raises me whole.
(C)2019, Christos Rigakos
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
I send her roses each and every day.
She asks for reasons, they don't satisfy.
This heart's expression is my only way
to answer each and every question, why?
She plants each one inside a large glass vase.
It fattens in its bulky green-red width.
She waters it hourly just in case
this bulk shrivel by one rose-breadth.
In truth they have no petals and no stem,
no color and no subtle fragrant scent.
The vase is her awareness of them.
They are but words of love my passions sent.
For I am but a poor and broken soul,
whose love for my dear love raises me whole.
(C)2019, Christos Rigakos
English / Shakespearean Sonnet
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