Valentine -- No Pesare No regrets

Valentine with Fur and Gold

Repent not. The lady is not for blaming.
Even sins would be forgiven, and we only pray
there were more of them.

No ribboned remorse is wrapped and stored
in the cupboard. Not there is the egg-shelled air.

Mi pesar please and thank you and
sweet heart my dear. No getting a rue over your head.

For you, a life in the provinces in the middle of all kinds
of march behind the cat on the queen victoria. My sweet.
No self-reproof of any pudding here. Her indoors, and
outdoors, and her compunction. The lady of the lake
and the forest, and the coming along the shore. Who could
ask for more and always will. Give me the dance, not
the guilt-tripping a lava-light fantastic. Who would know
is never done and the Be in your bonnet is a bonnie lass.
My sweet. My pudding. Ah it is you were meant for more
than scuttings, and woulds that dishes were never
ever dirty dirty dirty in our purty flirty midden kitchen
you middle march through.

You’ve walked those nights. You’ve talked those days.
Lonely no more, great beloved woman. You were meant
to inhale. All the mothers and fathers of the sure-would
forest and the imps of the everlasting glades only travel
for the hope of seeing you, and only leave on the back of their
spingling regrets, not of yours.

Penseverance pay, say it is not so. You were intended for
fur and feathers, and pockets you can reach into, and
those fingers, that arch, the justice of the piece matched set.
The guilt was all gold, no really, gold, oro de todo. A thousand
times–oh so many times–you still end up nowhere you
have ever been a stranger to.

Believe in the way of loving. It works with pastels, it works
with the tropical accents, it composes the seeing and
fills the being, and afterwards, when all introductions are
gone and the beginnings have exhausted themselves,
your love is the wow factor that every one remembers.
Your love. Wow. I factor this:
Your love is all that people see.
It is everything to me.