Tall yellow flowers of the sunny type bloomed and a bee bumbled with much delight. ‘What a fine day for love,’ I quietly mused as I looked into the canopy of the tall tree we sat underneath. I laid my book on the grass. I stood up for it was my turn to recite poetry. ‘Some good prose is what they need,’ I thought to myself once more. It was a challenge to please a group like this because of how they mumbled and grumbled. Poetry was not their bliss. I was hoping to change their mind. I cleared my throat and readied my voice.
“Love, love, and more love,” I began but found myself already interrupted.
“I declare! This poet is not the same! Listen how he writes of loves flame!” laughed a hearty voice.
“Brought to us with a blazing hand, nonetheless!” joked another.
“Even his pen is aflame!” shouted a third.
“Quiet everyone! Let him speak!” the master instructed.
Though he, and they, did not want any more prose or poems about love, that’s exactly what I spoke of. But this time even more robustly.
“Love, Love, and more love!” I shouted. “It’s all I can think of! Listen how they speak like a man, yet melt in thy hand and on thy wrist. Oh, love and the struggle betwixt.” Two men who were mumbling caught my attention.
“Pardon me, those who wish to hear of love no more, but I believe I hold the floor. You say that for all love scorches makes it hard to breathe. Sparkling embers, fire, and flames! Step aside smokey love, give them room to see. The charring of hearts for many is too much. They roll over and die in its burning clutch. Encompassed with an all-consuming fire. Passion that leaves its victims dire. Yet look how I dance in its inferno! Give me love they will never know. Embers ablaze! Sparks that torch! My heart thrives in the scorch! That splendor, brilliance, and majestic radiance. It’s humble kindness, beauty, and magnificence.” I finally spoke to an attentive audience. I became animated as I walked under the umbrage of the shade tree.
“Many write to me in hopes that I will stop. They tell me that writing of love is a flop. ‘It’s all been done and said,’ they continue.
“Have not my words you read? For I write of peachy lips and skin like milk. How thy touch is soft as silk. ‘But we have already written of her milky skin,’ they say.
“To which I reply, move over so I can write of her milky skin again! Also: Her lips, her fingers, her toes, her eyes, her hair, her nose, her chin, her sighs! For the rest of my life that is the plan. To write of a love knows no man! So, when you go to sweep my words up like a crumb, remember, there’s more where those came from!” I finished my poetry to a very captivated audience. There was much applause. What a fine day for love.
