After posting the paint-chip ghazal earlier today, I remembered this one, written about a month ago, on January 16, 2021.
Forgive my folly, veritable wells of it!
Let it be written down, say not farewell to it!
Before its end, all pens would use their ink;
Were I given all time, I could not tell of it.
See how the heart makes passion come in waves —
Behold the ocean deep, the ebb and swell of it!
Even if you are not my Beatrice,
Could you not be my Virgil for the hell of it?
Now all that’s left are roses pressed in books:
One such sweet scent — this writer brings to life the smell of it.