Beautiful old-fashioned valentines. There’s a box of them here in my mother’s desk that she kept from her grammar school days. Delicate, simple, intricate, ornate, all with familiar names. Off to the library, now, to high school, to marriage, to war. Home again, home again. To clothesline. To family. To a walk through the park. And what have we here? Someone’s initials, in the heart of the sycamore?
Recently Banned Literature, February 14, 2018
How could I wish things different?
Pull the wrong thread, and we’d both disappear.
Or worse — we’d be here, and here wouldn’t.
Do you understand, my dear? And is it clear
That I’d love you, even if I couldn’t?