STANLEY PACION (Chicago, Illinois USA)
Out in Arizona my Dad grew roses.
He embraced the great merit,
Loved to say,
How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden.
That spot he tended along side the house,
It was the love of his retirement.
I saw those roses disporting,
Performing and they were real pretty,
Showing off their tightly petaled spiraling centers.
Seems they climbed the long-tall trellises just to flaunt,
Dazzle the onlooker with the grace of their towering ascent,
And what beauty in their many colors,
Their outfits boasting red, and pink,
And the truest bright of yellow,
While others bore garb,
All infused with hues of gold and orange.
With that said,
I feel as though I have written myself into a predicament.
How do I dare still to proclaim,
Those roses never flowered like you.
No! They never looked the way,
The way you looked tonight, darling.
Sure! No doubt about it!
Many might find this kind of talk
Coy, no more than borrowed phrase and imagery,
Notions common in the language of the heart.
So here’s the twist. I swear to it. I tell the truth,
The same as if I stood in court of law,
My right hand raised, the left upon the Holy Book.
By solemn oath I declare,
My flattery means to please your heart,
The same as would the wrappings on any special gift.
So help me, honey, know these words,
My terms of endearment, honest and sincere.
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