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I wrote this a month ago while watching the new, cinema production of Jayne Eyre. I guess it should be devoted to all the Valentine’s Day lovers in the blogosphere, but in my heart I can only think of one; my dear wife Katrina.
Pulling Petals
He loves me?
He loves me not?
What equitable worth might this faerie thaumaturgy bestow?
For how could it answer that she should select from the randomness of a walk through a beflowered dale, a blossom endowed with its petals as such that they are enumerated evenly or oddly, just so? What oracle, be it sylvan or nether, could venture to tread before this love stricken soul, rapturing away any spare petals, that the bloom she doth pluck might infallibly portend the romantic success or abject failure fated for said maiden?
He loves me not?
Never say it, dear!
Can she not see? Or perhaps she possesses not a looking-glass; but surely a momentary reflection from a pool would be sufficient; that she is much more highly endowed with beauty, fairer even than the flowers that she so freely maims in her search for an answer. Were she to but meet head on the gaze of the young brute she so adores, she would find the reply to her inquiries glaring, no, screaming back at her.
He loves you dear lady.
How could he not?
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