[I identify this one most closely with Amy Lowell's "Patterns". Not about anyone in particular. Every writer has some bad love poems at the bottom of a drawer. This is one of many.]


The satin sheets are rippled around your sleeping body
like reflections off a passing stream.
You shift and change with the moving water,
a new reflection each time I look.
Not long ago you were a tiger lily,
vibrant, open, and exotic,
your passion exposed in full blossom.
Now you are a sleeping tulip
whose folded petals will soon open
to the touch of the rising sun.
Other times, you have been other things,
each with its own beauty.
When you cried, you huddled in my arms
a tiny alyssum,
so delicate
I was afraid to touch you.
I nuzzle my face into your neck
and close my eyes
and smell a rose.
I look into your eyes
and see the bluebells
that punctuate the new spring lawn.
When I kiss you just right
you become the cherry blossoms
that shudder in the breeze
then melt from their stems
and spiral dizzily down to a bed of dewey grass.
When you step out in your evening gown
you are nothing but a blazing orchid,
a fragile balance of color, poise, strength and grace.
From time to time I may bring you flowers,
refrigerated clippings bundled within a crinkly wrap,
but as your carnation hair spills across the pillow
and dips into the satin stream,
I look at you and see the bouquet
you give me every day.

        -- © 2000 W.A. Seaver