By Claude McKay
Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.
Your lips betray the secret of your soul,
The dark delicious essence that is you,
A mystery of life, the flaming goal
I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.
Your lips are the red symbol of a dream,
What visions of warm lilies they impart,
That line the green bank of a fair blue stream,
With butterflies and bees close to each heart!
Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare,
That softly fall upon the langourous breeze,
Wafting them gently on the quiet air
Among untended avenues of trees.
O were I hovering, a bee, to probe
Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower,
Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe,
Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour!
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Our internet is out and Verizon is giving us a big B.S. runaround about when it will be fixed (it's something outside the house, meaning we need a truck, and it's not the whole neighborhood, meaning we're not a priority. So my photos are not uploaded, my emails are not answered, and pretty much all other online chores are not finished, but the laundry has been washed and we went to the mall with Maddy for As Kindred Spirits' going out of business sale and froyo.
I also got to enjoy spring in the neighborhood, which right now involves the remaining daffodils and cherry blossoms plus hyacinths and the first tulips. Since we couldn't watch any television, we watched pre-recorded British shows: a couple of episodes of Broadchurch and a couple of episodes of The Halcyon (the latter quite interesting with a lot of messy, not very likeable characters). Some of Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens' flowers:
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