soubrette

A minor classic for those who, like me, have almost forgotten there was a time before a certain South African beauty carried off my heart.

soubrette

my heart blossoms and the petals are fragrant
like the wrists of a mistress,
stained and ordained with a perfume prepared
to meet the expectations of a lover.
my heart blossoms and the colours explode
in the spectrum of ancient light
caught at the far end of the universe, perceived new
but from the beginning, what always was.
my heart blossoms and all the thorns melt
and run into nothingness, for pain is not regent
in a world where there are the petals and fragrance
of your lips, ripe with emotion and hope.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.