Here’s a poem by Mark Twain

It flares up at sunrise, a blush in a bramble Tumbling out of its bed by the city pavement—a single Rose, coral heat, at the end of the season. And you are drawn to it, to its scent, its silky Layers, to its core. It gathers you into its Body until you lose your balance, all you can see Is a petaled grid, an endless repetition Of roses. You sink swirling into the rose, Deep into the rose, into the rose. I hold you to me. Love, I am forty-four, And you, love, you, my love, You have planted me.


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