The Curator

See how our combustion blooms!
A fragrant flame too hot to touch
For more than just these fleeting months
Of lush and fruitful spring.
The way it overawes my eyes
With scorching hues that soon must fade
As blossoms do --
O let me pluck it,
Singe my fingers,
Press it 'twixt the pages of a book,
Preserve it there, ethereal and faint.

I'll put those glowing petals thus to bed
Between the paper sheets,
Until a germinating spark
Suffuses them with brightness
And propagates the flame,
So anyone who reads
Will quicken with the sweet
Perennial candescence of our love.