Valentine

from Geneva
by Duncan Dwelle, February 1986


 

I might have sent candy
or dozens of flowers
or choirs of musicians
to serenade you for hours.

I might have sent telegrams
by singing gorilla
or a slinky fur coat
(real fox, not chinchilla).

I might have sent tickets
to the symphony, ballet;
or tickets quite different
to a place far away.

I might have sent silk
that I saw passing by,
with Gauguin colored jungle
on a blue like the sky.

I might have sent artworks -
old porcelain and jade,
hand knotted rugs
of a sort seldom made.

I might have sent fragrance -
the rarest perfume -
to sprinkle you gently
and waft round the room.

I might have sent jewelry -
topaz and turquoise,
gold-mounted diamonds,
pearls for your choice.

Next year I might send you
all these in a bunch,
dress you up fancy,
invite you to lunch.

But Valentine's Day
has a message quite plain.
In hopes you'll remember
I'll say it again:

Rather than send you
all the fine gifts above,
the thing that I send you
is all of my love.

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