La Diada de Sant Jordi

I want to give her a rose the color of flesh,
a hint of blood in its petals. My blood.
I want her to cradle that bloom in perfect fingers
so I can imagine it my hand
as we walk together down La Rambla
past cafés draped in yellow and red,
past the dancers of the sardana,
past the stalls of cakes and sweets
to the end of the one street that should never end.

I want to read to her at dusk from Quijote,
her head light on my thigh as a lily
slowly closing into night. I want

to give her a book of my poems,
but my only poems are dreams
and she sleeps so soundly without them.



—Thanks to chipbutty for the idea, however peripheral to her original poem.