On Valentine’s,
I didn’t think of hearts
but of shamrocks,
of St. Patrick,
the lush and kelly greens
of the Irish,
the luck that clovers bring.
So leave your blood-filled, beating
organ at the door
and your chocolates, flowers, with it.
Let me pine for almost Spring
and a romp under leaves,
through grasses.
You can have your snowy day
and diamonds, pearls, to go.
You can have your lover’s kiss
and night of heated sex –
No, I’m lying.
Forgive me, Triune God,
and Mr. & Mrs. O’Shea.
Your time has not yet come,
for I need to hold and be held,
love and be loved and make love,
and dream of Dublin another day,
another month, when the vestige of red
has melted with the white.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
Comments