"When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops
Poetry: Poems by Claire
Oh, keep your grocery store bouquet, with grim
and weeping blooms, distressed by frantic hands
in search of "just the right" last minute gift.
And keep your goddamn mylar heart of gas.
Instead, go find for me the little boy,
(I don't recall his name) the one who fell
in love with brunette curls and halting voice,
her shyness like his own. The one who left
his Valentine in secret, without puff.
I found it on my wooden desk, no bows,
no baby's breath. One purple zinnia
with crumpled tinfoil wrapping and a note,
(shy whisper of his dearest fourth grade wish)
"I hope this color is your favorite."
Copyright © 1995 Claire A. Schaeffer