Once upon a time, many years ago, a young woman pressed her senior prom corsage in a book of Shakespearean love poems. She ...

We do not loosen our hands’ intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses. One of the most ...

You cannot make us think you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you are brilliant, it is not because your petals are the without-which-nothing of pre-eminence. You would look, minus thorns—like a ...

As I opened the Bard’s book of love poems, a long-faded rose, pressed in cellophane, slipped out onto my lap activating an entire replay of my prom on the movie screen in my mind. This scene was ...