If you want some love poetry, I'm posting some of my favorites on Twitter until Valentine's Day.
And this is new, a poem inspired by Chagall's painting "The Birthday", among other miraculous things. Especially from one particular being - someone a poet friend called "my beautiful muse."
Despite my mother’s warnings against superstition
and the black book pressed into her lap,
its exhortations: in the dark ink of nothingness,
on the white paper of winter skies.
Despite the cost of butter for a cake,
and the warning to save candles for blackouts.
Despite years of loneliness
packed into my bones like rationed flour.
I bought flowers for my birthday
and refused to pretend otherwise.
I made a cake and broke a pomegranate
while it baked, counted each jeweled seed
as it burst on my tongue while I waited.
I opened the window to March wind.
Despite everything, I made a wish.
It floated out on sugared air.
You floated back on jonquil breath.
Decades of stinginess had taught me
to wish only for a kiss.
Some granter of wishes, not conversant in lack,
gave me you.