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